


Icebergs

by TheSignsOfTwo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Palace, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Reichenbach, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-06-10 08:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSignsOfTwo/pseuds/TheSignsOfTwo
Summary: John Watson is an iceberg. Most of what he really feels and thinks is hidden from sight. What's visible is just the tip of who he is, a facade masterfully created and maintained to keep others out. Sherlock glimpsed the rest of it once, but he left before he could understand the full extent of it. And the iceberg of bottled up emotion just keeps growing.Sherlock Holmes is an iceberg. His Mind Palace extends for miles and miles below the surface. Even he doesn't know where every path leads. But the iceberg is melting away and losing momentum. At some point soon, the weight will shift and the iceberg will roll over, collapsing in on itself.





	1. Under the Pine

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a Sherlock fanfiction and my first fanfiction in years. I am, unfortunately, extremely busy and perfectionistic, so updating might be very slow indeed, but I promise to do my best to keep the chapters coming out semi-regularly. So, without further ado, thank you so much for reading and I really hope that you will enjoy "Icebergs"!

Thoughts are such tricky things, aren’t they? They seem so fleeting and harmless that you’re fooled into thinking that only voicing them can make problems out of them. John knows how erroneous that assumption is. He’s learned that the hard way. It’s as if not one of the thoughts in his head now ever was or will be unproblematic. Fleeting much less. Those same thoughts have been with him for two whole years now, trapped inside his head and remaining unspoken. Long-time companions of his. More long-time than the woman he plans to propose to. There’s a certain irony in that now that he thinks about it.

Funny, that. He’s not alone anymore. Things have changed. He has changed. He’s moving on. And yet here, now, with Mary’s hand in his, a definitive proof of his newfound lack of solitude, he feels no different from how he felt standing here last time, two years ago. It disappoints him in a way. Somehow he had hoped to stand here with Mary by his side and feel contented. Somehow he had hoped to stand here in front of Sherlock’s tombstone and feel free enough to finally let go, to finally be able to say _See this, you selfish bastard? I survived. I survived without you._ But now that he’s here, that’s not how he feels. The thoughts in his head are not ready to let go of him and he’s not ready to let go of them. Perhaps that’s what you get for postponing important conversations until it’s too late. Regret. Two long years of it.

He really should talk with his therapist about it. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Talk everything through, have a bit of a cry, pat on the back and on you go with your life. Supposed to be good for you. John just can’t do it. It’s not just that he doesn’t like having to talk about how he feels. It’s not even that he can’t think of anything worse than others seeing him cry, especially when it’s a stranger who’s being paid to be sympathetic. He has paid, after all, and talked and even cried. But what he hasn’t said yet are the things that he can’t bring himself to share, not with anyone. He didn’t share them with Sherlock. He should have done so, he shouldn’t have waited, but he did and now it’s too late forever. Sharing them now, posthumously, with a virtual stranger would feel utterly wrong.

It doesn’t matter. He comes prepared as he promised himself that he would. During his mental preparations for this visit, which took longer than he wants to admit, he promised himself that if he stood here like he does now, with Mary at his side and Sherlock three feet beneath him, and felt as strong a pull (a stronger pull even?) towards Sherlock beneath and behind him than towards Mary beside and in front of him, he would at least do his best and give Mary as much of him as he possibly could. Maybe then, in time, Mary can do for him what Sherlock did. Take away that pain that’s only in his head, yet feels so real that there are days where he could swear that he’s suffering from some as yet unknown disease, the symptoms of which include crippling bouts of depression and nightmares in all-too vivid colour, leaving him heaving and drenched in sweat. Humiliated and far too vulnerable.

It’s intolerable, it really is. Unbearable. He should be stronger, but he’s not. Time ought to be the cure, but it’s not. His wounds aren’t bleeding anymore, but when was he ever cured of anything the moment he stopped bleeding? Why should he start now? His wounds are scabbed over, that’s what they are. Closed enough to permit him to return somewhat to what could be described as real life and yet ready to be ripped open at any moment. A long coat in the cue for the check out. A mop of dark curls on the other side of the road. A violin in the score of a movie. Two years and he still feels a short, infinitely painful stab at the smallest reminder. No, time definitely isn’t the cure for this ailment. John has grown tired of waiting and changed his tactic.

Mary is a nurse. That’s how they met. Office romance. If you can call it that when you’re both nearing forty and one of you is only fully functioning around fifty percent of the time. Still. Mary is sweet, funny and a good listener. She has a soothing voice and a gentle touch and there’s understanding rather than pity in her eyes when he accidentally wakes her up in the middle of the night during one of his nightmares despite his desperate efforts to keep quiet. Most importantly, though, she’s a safe bet. There’s nothing too extreme or extraordinary about her, she’s just nice to be around and John likes to think that they care for one another in much the same way: not too passionately, not too recklessly, not too dangerously. Their relationship isn’t overly exciting, but that fits the both of them well. What Mary can provide – stability, reassurance, comfort, companionship – is what John needs right now.

True, John has to admit that he doubts whether Mary will ever be able to fully mend him. Wonders whether Mary isn’t more like a new cane than a new Sherlock. Which is a ridiculous sentiment. Mary isn’t supposed to be a new Sherlock. She’s supposed to be Mary. His girlfriend. She’s good enough just as she is even if she isn’t Sherlock. She has many fine qualities even if she’s nothing like Sherlock.

In any case.

If Mary is his new cane then so be it. Maybe it’s for the best, really. He honestly doesn’t know whether Sherlock brought more joy or more pain into his life. If Mary can be his stable support, maybe that’s good enough. He can live with less joy and excitement and passion in his life if it means living with less pain too. An equilibrium between joy and pain with smaller values is preferable to the violent transition from the highest high to the lowest low that Sherlock put him through. Or so he tells himself. Just as he tells himself not to compare them.

“John? Are you alright?” John looks up from Sherlock’s tombstone to focus on Mary. Pretends not to notice his own reluctance. That’s another good thing about Mary. She grounds him. Gives him something else to think about. Makes him focus on the here and now rather than the past. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Smiles fondly at him rather than giving him the by now all too familiar you-are-being-so-strong-I’m-so-proud-of-you look that made him quit his last three therapists.

Mary is definitely a better help than any of the therapists he went to see after Sherlock. She’s quite sensitive to his moods, quite good at deciphering exactly when he needs her to ask, when he needs her to break off his line of thought before it starts spiralling downwards and when he needs her to just let whatever he’s doing or however he’s looking pass without comment. Maybe it’s the nurse in her. Maybe it’s just the way she is. John hopes it’s the latter. He wants to be her partner, after all, not her patient. He doesn’t want her pity, doesn’t even want her care and concern. He just wants a new start.

Mary understands, more or less. She knows that talking about how he feels makes John uncomfortable and so she usually avoids the topic. She knows that John still finds it difficult to think about what happened and so she doesn’t try to get information out of him, but rather lets him come to her if he needs to get something off his chest. That’s one of the things about Mary that John has been attracted to from the beginning. She respects his feelings and lets him expose himself to her on his own terms. She understands what he needs. And if she doesn’t understand why, who could blame her? John barely understands these things himself. That took Sherlock Holmes too, apparently.

“I have to go soon or I’ll be late for Cath. Did you want that lift?” Mary gives his hand a slight squeeze, urging him towards the car almost unnoticeably. Perfectly understandable. Mary knows John well enough by now to understand that this is definitely a danger night. Just as John knows Mary well enough by now to understand that she is urging him towards accepting her offer of a lift to spare him the humiliation of having his possibly ensuing meltdown in public. Although they both pretend that Mary is ignorant of the sometimes quite violent things that John gets up to in the privacy of his own flat when he is alone, they both know that she understands perfectly well that “dropped” means “hurled” and that John leaving the clinic early doesn’t indicate a general rise in health levels. 

Not that it’s a regular occurrence anymore. The first three to four months, barely a week went by that John didn’t spend at least a day curled up in what was more or less the foetal position although he still has trouble acknowledging that to himself. By now, after two years, John has painstakingly brought his number of bad days down to once every two to three months. But today looks like an obvious candidate.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, yeah…”

-

As it nearly always happens these days, John manages to keep himself together as long as Mary is there. They get into the car, John in the passenger seat. They haven’t even left the cemetery parking lot before Mary starts talking of random things, a movie they have just watched, her last conversation with Cath, that elderly man who always comes into the clinic complaining of first this and then that. Before John knows it, they have left the cemetery behind altogether without him catching a last glimpse of the pine. He tries to tell himself that that is a good thing.

By the time Mary drops him off in front of their house, she has offered that he can come along with her to visit Cath at least thrice. John has politely declined each time. Even though Mary insists that it’s not a problem, John knows better. Of course it’s a problem, her dragging him along to her friends because he can’t be trusted to keep it together on his own. Even if it isn’t, John would rather be without that humiliation.

Mary drives on. He doesn’t wave. He just locks himself in, heads for the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea that he decides upon the first sip is too light for him right now. Instead he finds a bottle of wine, leftover from an evening with friends of course, and pours himself a glass of that.

It’s the first time he has been back. Not once in the two gruelling years since the funeral has he dared take one step beyond the cemetery gate. Several times, he’s been close to going and then changed his mind at the last minute. With the field day the papers were having in the months following that day at Bart’s, who knows what some stupidly ignorant nobody might do to the tombstone? And with the way Sherlock was, not very many would come to lay flowers there. John wishes he could have gone before. The thought of Sherlock’s tombstone standing there, isolated, untended and in disgrace, is more than John can take. And still he didn’t go before now. He hasn’t been to Baker Street either. In fact he’s gone out of his way to avoid the place. He knows, objectively, that he should pay a visit. It’s long overdue. Not only have all his therapists advised him that he must face what happened before he can get on with his life. There’s also Mrs. Hudson to consider. Not one phone call has he made to her since the funeral. She called a couple of times in the beginning, but he wasn’t very talkative and she stopped eventually. Now it’s up to him to make the next move. He just can’t bring himself to do it, no matter how much he hates himself for letting her down. The day of Sherlock’s fall, he spent the night at Baker Street because he had nowhere else to go, but that was the first and last night he ever slept in Baker Street without Sherlock. Not that he did much sleeping. The feeling of sitting there in the chair that used to be so familiar to him, knowing that Sherlock would never return to occupy the chair opposite… That had nearly broken him.

It’s the same with every other reminder. The box with some of Sherlock’s things that Lestrade brought him half a year ago is sitting somewhere in the back of a cupboard. John can’t bring himself to throw it out, but he can’t stand unpacking it either, much less having some of the things on display. The merest glimpse of anything just vaguely connected to or representing Sherlock in the remotest way is enough to make his insides clench up in painful knots and there are enough reminders as it is. Every single street in London seems to be full of them. He can’t face anything more even if parting from everything with any connection to the life he once shared with Sherlock and storing whatever small tokens of him that still remain back into a cupboard somewhere feels too much like an attempt to pretend that he can ever go back to how it was before Sherlock.

John used to think of his life as before and after the army. When he had been invalided out of the army, he’d thought that he was done maturing, that the army was the life experience that had made him come fully into himself once and for all. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was more John Watson than he had ever been before that time. Being invalided out had felt like being cut off from who he was and who he was meant to be. It had felt like losing himself. Replacing the real John Watson with a half-empty shell of him, limping, unemployed, poor and lonely, with no one to talk to other than a therapist convinced that he suffered from PTSD.

Now John thinks of his life as before and after Sherlock. It just makes more sense. The difference between the John Watson before and after the army is nothing compared to the difference between the John Watson who met Sherlock Holmes in Bart’s Hospital, the John Watson who watched Sherlock Holmes throw himself off the very same building less than two years later and the John Watson sitting here now.

John sips his wine slowly, letting the flavour swirl around his mouth. He had been wrong about himself. He had thought Captain John Watson was as close to his core being as he could come. But he had never fully felt himself until he met Sherlock. It was as simple as that. Sherlock had drawn out all of his truest sides, both the good and the bad, in a way that nothing and no one had ever done before or after. John Watson only became John Watson after Sherlock Holmes. But if that’s true, then can there even be a John Watson without a Sherlock Holmes? It’s a question John has often asked himself and he still isn’t sure. He has undoubtedly improved his ability to be John Watson without Sherlock Holmes during the last two years. He has managed to get hold again of some of those pieces of himself drifting around, especially since Mary entered his life. Still it’s true that much of John Watson lies buried with Sherlock Holmes. That’s who Sherlock Holmes was to John Watson. While Sherlock was still… _there_ … John had never once taken the time to really think about what exactly Sherlock meant to him. All he knew was that no one mattered as much. None of his friends, none of his family, none of his girlfriends had even come close. Next to Sherlock, the rest of the world had simply left him feeling… uninterested. For a while, John had tried to maintain some sort of social independence, flirting and going on dates as often as he deemed it necessary for a single man of his age to do. He’d stopped when he realised that he actually didn’t care enough to put any real effort into making those relationships work. Though he’s reluctant to admit it, it had been as difficult for him to tell his girlfriends apart as it had been for Sherlock. That still makes John chuckle, though those memories are now mixed in with a good dose of pain.

Since then, however, John has had plenty of time to feel what Sherlock meant to him. What he still means. What he said at Sherlock’s grave – that Sherlock was the best man, the wisest man and the most human human being that he has ever known and that no one will ever convince him that Sherlock told him a lie – that had been as deep a truth as he has ever uttered and yet it had only been what he could manage to say at the time. Just the tip of the iceberg of things John wishes he had had the guts to say to his face when there was still time.

Later, during the days spent curled up in bed, the things he has said has been unarticulated to the point that he barely knows himself what he has ended up getting out over the months. 

Much of it has been about the charges. That of course he didn’t believe a word of what the papers said, what the police said. That he never would have, that surely Sherlock had known that. How could he not? How could he think that John would ever accept that it had all been some trick? How could he doubt that John would stand by his side? John has shouted at Sherlock, blaming him for not seeing it. Blaming him for always insisting on being alone. How could he have preferred to go to his death alone rather than confide in John? How could he? John still doesn’t know. Even if Sherlock somehow was able to answer him, would he be able to? Would he be able to come up with some believable explanation for not confiding in John, for not stopping John from leaving him, for not once letting John inside his mind? _Don’t go. I’m in danger._ That’s all he would have needed to say. Would he be able to explain why he hadn’t?

Of course he would. If Sherlock was really here, he would have given some perfectly logical, rational explanation. And John would have hated him for it. Because that was never the point. John doesn’t care about logic or reason in this case. Rational arguments matter little to him. The point is that Sherlock went to his death on his own, alone, deserted, in disgrace and John wasn’t even allowed to be there with him until the end.

He leans forward, hiding his face in his hands. He doesn’t quite sob. He just shakes.

It’s not just Sherlock that he blames though. Most of all, he blames himself. For being blind enough to fall for Moriarty’s obvious trick. For not staying with Sherlock when he, despite what he might have said, had needed John the most. But more than anything, he blames himself for what he said and what he didn’t say. That the last conversation they had other than that final phone call had been John shouting at him, calling him a machine, asking him if he even knew how to feel… those few moments have haunted John ever since almost as badly as the sight of blood on the pavement. He’ll never forgive himself for those words. He’ll never forgive himself for not knowing that that was the last real conversation they’d ever have.

It has taken John two years to do this, to go back to the cemetery, to make the decision to move on. He doubts if he should have done it if not for Mary. She deserves better than what he has given her so far. She deserves better than being relegated to the side-lines on a constant basis, taking turns being cane, therapist and friend. Mary has listened to everything he has needed to say during the last months, but never once has she talked to him about her own past. She says she prefers it that way, but it just makes John feel the more guilty for taking advantage of her listening ear without being able to offer her his in return. She deserves better and he’s determined to give her that. Moving on from Sherlock seems to be the only way, so that’s what he’s going to do. Or try to do at the very least.

-

His hands are clasped so tightly around the chains that he has long since lost feeling in his fingers, the metal digging into the sensitive flesh of his palms. Distracting him. Grounding him. His senses are awry. He can’t see much, there’s blood in his eyes and he’s crouched forward anyway, eyes towards the ground. The only things he can taste are his own blood and saliva, neither of which is a taste he would like to dedicate any amount of consideration to. He really doesn’t want to smell more than what is unavoidable, the aroma in here is sickening. Blood, sweat, damp and mould in lovely combination. He could probably detect other scents as well if he tried, but what he is forced to smell on accident is enough to make him gag as it is. His sense of touch is completely off the table. He blocks out as much as possible by maintaining his grip on the chain. Stupid. A sentimental response that he objectively knows is more or less futile. Better than nothing though. 

And so he is left with hearing as the sense to focus on. The choked clang of metal against skin is over for the moment, but there are so many other sounds to focus on. Drops of water from the ceiling hitting metal and concrete on the floor below, military boots marching by outside his cell, conversations in Serbian carried in other rooms, music from a radio, laughter, a helicopter above the facility where he is kept. His own ragged breath. The soft clinking of the chains every time he shifts.

There’s another sound here too. Lower than the rest, barely perceptible above the general noise surrounding him. A creaking. A slow, insistent creaking. He wonders idly if the noise is coming from the aching joints in his shoulders. Maybe the noise is meant as a warning that his shoulders are about to give up on holding him even just partly upright and abandon him to the agonizing tearing he knows will ensue once he lets himself collapse. He steels himself for this.

But the noise might equally be a warning of something far worse. Because the noise is not coming from his body. The noise is coming from his head.


	2. Wine and Chips

”There, there, now…”

Mycroft’s face is grim as he rubs small circles on the few percentages of his brother’s back not covered in recent lash marks. Sherlock raises his head from the bucket between his feet just long enough to glare daggers at the older Holmes before he doubles over again, coughing up yet another bloody bit of mucus and trying in vain to dry the corners of his mouth with an already soaked handkerchief.

“It’s alright. You’re safe now.”

The words are meant to be soothing, but they just annoy Sherlock all the more. As if he doesn’t know where he is, as if he doesn’t realise it’s over. Since being hurried into the back of a van two hours ago outside the facility where he’s been kept for the last three weeks, Sherlock has been perfectly clear-headed. They’ve been unable to give him more than a maximum dose of painkillers and something to quench his fever, insufficient to cause any lag in his awareness of the situation. They’re still not out of Serbia, but they’ll cross the border into Hungary in less than an hour according to Sherlock’s calculations. From there, they’re heading for Pécs to catch a private plane back to Britain. Mycroft hasn’t said so, but Sherlock knows his brother’s favoured spheres of influence. Once they’re aboard the plane, he will be given a hefty dose of antibiotics to combat the infections in his system, the unfortunate souvenirs of spending 20 days in a rusting cell under a constantly leaky water pipe with open cuts. Hopefully they’ll have a cigarette for him as well.  
Another cough and he’s spitting blood. The injuries to his stomach area must be more severe than he initially judged them to be. It doesn’t matter now. He knows a doctor in London. If only his head would stop creaking so.

-

“Mary?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Right.” John heads in the direction of her voice to find Mary by the dining table, laptop in front of her and a cup of tea within easy reach. “Busy day?” she asks when he enters, keeping her eyes on the screen. John continues to the bureau, puts down his bag and keys and tries to make it look casual. “What makes you think so?”

“Well, you’re a bit late.”

The best way forward is forward, isn’t it? John gathers his courage as much as he feels he needs to and turns towards her. “I had some shopping to do. For tonight.” Not the most discreet of hints. Maybe it’s saying too much, but John honestly wouldn’t care if she guesses what he’s bought. They’ve discussed marriage before and now feels like a good time to make it official. If she suspects it beforehand, it might save him from having to come up with an opening line, which can only end in embarrassment.

“What’s tonight?” John is momentarily stunned as the potential humiliation of having to remind Mary that they have a dinner date tonight at an extremely expensive restaurant in the Marylebone Road that John would never ever dream of entering under normal circumstances and has spent weeks planning flashes before his mind’s eye. Then Mary starts to laugh at his flustered expression. “I know, I know. The Landmark, eight o’clock. I remember. Unlike some people, I don’t forget my appointments.” Her tone is kept light and teasing and she gives him a quick peck on the lips as she passes him by. John briefly closes his eyes, pressing his lips together. “Right,” is the only response he can come up with and he leaves it at that.

-

That night, John is too angry for words. He even snaps at Mary, even though this is absolutely no fault of hers, causing her to give him the most unimpressed of looks before turning the lights off and abandoning him to his own thoughts while she sleeps. He doesn’t understand how she manages it. How can anyone sleep, how can anyone keep on living their lives as if nothing has happened, when Sherlock bloody Holmes can come crashing through the doors of The Landmark after being dead for two years with not a word of apology other than a drawn-on moustache and a cartoonish French accent? _How?_

And that’s not even beginning to cover the range of questions, some of them more accusing than others, that John is left with. Despite what Sherlock might think, the least pressing is how he actually did it. The most pressing… that’s more difficult to answer. There are many candidates. Just answering one of them would have been a good start, but Sherlock had been as characteristically unobservant as ever when it comes to actual people other than himself and apparently couldn’t be bothered to come up with anything better than _well, I thought you might tell people, so I didn’t tell you._

As if that could ever justify what he has put John through. What was it all for? All the long conversations held with the empty air in his bedroom, all the painful stabs in his chest at the sight of a long coat, all the confused ramblings aimed at himself in his guilt and regret, his stream of consciousness going from one thing to the next without ever focusing directly on what it was all about. And now, all of it for bloody nothing, because Sherlock Holmes apparently isn’t even capable of staying dead. Returns from the grave as if he routinely smashes his head to pieces on the pavement five stories below him for the fun of it and then plays hide and seek for two years just to mess with everyone who ever cared about him. Then he turns up without as much as an explanation because John apparently matters way less to him than staging a dramatic entrance.

What angers John more than anything else, however, is that he isn’t just angry. He _is_ angry, he’s bloody furious! But at the same time, he can’t avoid the realisation that just seeing Sherlock, just hearing his voice and feeling the heat from his body, just being bloody near him again after two years, just _knowing_ that he still exists… it’s like taking a deep breath after being submerged almost to the point of drowning. Even while standing there in the restaurant, his stomach feeling as though it had dropped into his shoes and the floor seemingly gone from underneath him, John had felt it. He had felt _good_. 

Not good as in how he might have felt if Sherlock had never been gone. John definitely doesn’t feel that what Sherlock has done doesn’t matter, not for a second. This isn’t some bloody movie set in a perfect world where you can just decide to say _I don’t care_ and suddenly everything is alright and back to normal. Far from it. John isn’t in a forgiving mood. Right now, he isn’t even sure if he wants to see Sherlock again at all. The hurt is still too raw and Sherlock definitely didn’t seem repentant enough for John to even consider forgiving him. More as though this whole thing has been one gigantic joke and he doesn’t understand why John isn’t laughing. No, John definitely isn’t feeling as though the last two years don’t matter. In fact, he seriously doubts whether it will ever be alright, whether he and Sherlock can ever go back to how it used to be or whether the mere sight of Sherlock will be enough to set off all this hurt again and again for the rest of John’s life.

And still Sherlock’s mere presence had made him feel _good_. Good as in healed. Good as in just knowing that Sherlock is still here, in the world, had set off a happiness in his chest so fierce that it almost hurt as badly as it had hurt that day at Bart’s. Good as in no matter how badly Sherlock might have hurt John, no matter how badly John needs answers to all his questions, just being in Sherlock’s presence had been enough to fill in those gaps in John’s self that emerged after Sherlock’s so-called death and make him feel like a whole being once again. And the truly infuriating part of it all had been the realisation that John had been right, _god damn it_! He had been right in feeling that neither a therapist, a girlfriend or a marriage could make him into John Watson again. He had been right in feeling that only Sherlock bloody Holmes could make him whole again. 

_And now he’s back and John never wants to see his smug face again and yet he wants to see him so badly that he can hardly lie still and he hates himself equally for both!_

Mary shifts slightly in her sleep, drawing attention to herself, and John catches himself sighing in annoyance. He knows, objectively speaking, that none of this is Mary’s fault. If anything, she reacted remarkably well to having their one romantic evening interrupted by a man she’s never even met before. Sherlock’s overly dramatic return to life had broken off John’s admittedly awkward proposal and then, of course, taken all of his attention on an evening that should have been about Mary only. Then she had been dragged from one restaurant to the next while Sherlock and John had argued as though _she_ had been the third wheel. In short: objectively speaking, Mary should be the one feeling slighted.

Instead, John finds himself somewhat annoyed by her behaviour this evening. Her initial shock and disbelief had only mirrored his own and been no more than anyone could expect given the circumstances. But then she’d bloody gone and sided with _Sherlock_ of all people, shushing John in the restaurant like one would an over-excited five year old and staying behind with Sherlock after John had headed out to find a cab. Since he hasn't cared to ask, he doesn’t even know what they had spoken of. And then that relaxed statement in the cab, _I like him_ , as though that would make everything alright at once, as though Mary’s initial opinion was the one and only deciding factor. He hates when she does that. Shuts down his discontent with a shrug and a smile and then proceeds to tell him how she interpreted the situation in a way that leaves him unable to retaliate. Still, there’s a world of difference between her shutting down his dislike of asparagus by telling him how healthy it is, forcing him to either buy the damn things or feel unhealthy, and her shutting down his hurt and confusion in the wake of Sherlock’s return by telling him that _she_ found him likeable. Sherlock is John’s area. She’s never even met the man before. How does she think that her knee-jerk reaction to his character is the most important aspect of how John feels about him?

It takes John hours to fall asleep.

-

That night, Sherlock doesn’t sleep. Not for a minute. He’s trying to concentrate, but he can barely hear his own thoughts for that persistent creaking in his head. In hindsight, he probably should have handled the situation better. Been less impulsive, less intrusive, less dramatic, less cocksure. John always resented him being cocksure and Sherlock senses that this evening didn’t go a long way towards changing that. Sherlock knows himself to be bad at analysing a mood and John used to tell him repeatedly that he doesn’t pay enough attention to the effects of his own comments. Still, Sherlock feels confident that this evening’s disaster ranges among those of a certain calibre. Which is about the only thing he feels confident about at the moment.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting to return to. Returning to John and Baker Street has been the one thought that Sherlock has used to hold himself up during the last two years, especially during the last couple of weeks in Serbia. Recreating Baker Street in his Mind Palace in as much detail as possible has been a favourite pastime of his while waiting in airports, while trying to sleep on what can only be described as fourth rate mattresses at best and especially while trying to block out the sound and feel of metal pipes hitting his lower abdomen. But returning to Baker Street and to John has been a vague dream until the last couple of days, a hazy future seeming very far away and almost completely out of reach. Trying to predict what he might find upon his return has seemed unimportant until now. Still, Sherlock can feel himself taken aback by the realisation that he has returned to a John and a Baker Street fundamentally different from the ones he left behind. He hadn’t been prepared for everything to have changed so fundamentally as it seems to have done. He had fully expected to find John in Baker Street, making tea and working at the local clinic and making second-rate chicken risotto. Walking into that restaurant and finding John sitting with a complete stranger that he now lives with, drinking wine and obviously having a good time, had unleashed a feeling in Sherlock not unlike being doused in icy meltwater. The whole situation had caught him completely off guard, which is why he had ended up acting on instinct. Crucial mistake. Acting on instinct in social situations isn’t exactly his strong suit and tonight had been no different. 

Still, maybe John could have given him just a little bit of leeway. He had tried to explain himself. He had tried… well, perhaps he hadn’t exactly tried to be sensitive about it, but at the very least, he hadn’t tried to be insensitive either or play down the significance of what they have both endured. He had simply been happy. Happy to be back, happy to reunite with John. He had hoped that John would feel the same. Evidently not the case. He had tried to make John laugh, to make what might be a very emotional moment easier for both of them. He had hoped that John would appreciate that. Evidently not the case. 

Being this mistaken when anticipating the responses of the one person Sherlock feels he knows best is disconcerting to say the least. If he could only gather his thoughts, maybe he could figure out how to undo tonight and make everything better tomorrow. That godawful creaking doesn’t leave much space for thought processes, though. Sherlock has never had an actual migraine before, but he expects the feeling to be vaguely similar to how he feels now. He has attempted to block it out with painkillers as one would a migraine, unsuccessfully. The creaking continues, sufficiently loud at the moment to pose an obstacle to clear reasoning and analysis. Instead, Sherlock is left with no other option than to turn the evening’s events over in his mind again and again without reaching any conclusion. An activity as frustrating as it is pointless, but Sherlock can’t sleep now.

He can’t stop thinking about John. He can’t keep his mind from reproducing the look in John’s eyes as he finally looked up long enough to understand that Sherlock was there. The shock had been just as grand as Sherlock had anticipated. But he’d hoped to find the shock replaced with warm recognition and perhaps a slight crinkling at the corners of the eyes, which Sherlock recognises as a sign of joy or content in John. To see it replaced with hurt and disbelief instead had been infinitely more painful than anything else John had dealt him in the course of the evening.

At this, Sherlock groans in irritation at the bloodied napkin in front of him. John has hit him once before, but that had all been in good fun in the side alley of a state residence near Eaton Square in Belgravia. John hadn’t been angry then, only annoyed by Sherlock’s own, half-hearted punch and perhaps feeling a little put-upon after the morning’s events. It had been expected, controlled, almost kind of comical in its own way. It had felt like being ten years old again and being stupid just for the fun of it. It hadn’t _meant_ anything. Tonight had meant something. Only that something is an undefined something, a something that Sherlock’s over-worked brain has difficulty analysing in an objective fashion right now. 

The physical discomfort had mattered very little. Sherlock has endured far worse during the last month and he’s on hefty painkillers at the moment. Had he been in a fit state, nothing John did tonight would have caused more than a slight annoyance. Here he thinks especially of the bloody nose, that might have been a nuisance whether it hurt or not. But John hadn’t known that anything was amiss. 

_Which he would have if he’d bothered to listen for just one second,_ Sherlock’s brain supplies bitterly and utterly unhelpfully. 

No, the point is that nothing John had done would have hurt under normal circumstances and John hadn’t known that the circumstances are far from normal. A minor comfort, perhaps, but valuable none the less, because what Sherlock can’t stop picturing right now is not John tackling him to the ground in the restaurant nor the punch to his lip nor the powerful _coup de tête_ into his nose. What Sherlock can’t stop picturing is John’s expression, at first openly disbelieving and heartbroken before morphing into a closed off mask of hostility and contempt. That had been a harder slap than any physical slap could ever hope to be.

Maybe John will reconsider if Sherlock tells him why he had to go away. Maybe John will reconsider if Sherlock tells him what he has spent these two years doing. That’s what he said, wasn’t it? _I don’t care how you faked it, Sherlock, I want to know why._ If Sherlock tells him the truth, tells him about the snipers and the code and the rhythm and all of it, maybe John will understand. Or maybe that’s just foolish, self-deluding sentiment talking. Maybe Sherlock is missing the point, maybe the point is that John has had plenty of time to reconsider already, reconsider their friendship and Sherlock as a person and found both lacking. Maybe that’s why he has looked elsewhere in Sherlock’s absence.

At that thought, a sharp stab of pain flares up inside of him and he hurries to suppress it. It’s almost a reflex. Analysis: unhelpful emotional response concerning John’s relationships. File number: 3341.

It comforts him in a way, the knowledge that his filing system has escaped these two years mostly unscathed. Even if nothing else works, at least Sherlock’s brain is still filing away information in the same way as it always has. And if something is too painful, he can just store it away very far back in his mind. Put it behind locked doors and throw away the key. It’s how he survives. It’s how he has always survived and it’s how he will survive this, too.

-

In the end, John decides to go. Within 24 hours, in fact, though he’s trying to convince himself that the very next day after work isn’t the same as _as soon as possible_. 

He’s trying to convince himself of a lot of things at the moment. That he isn’t hurrying back to Baker Street in a way that makes the ordinary pedestrians step aside with a barely hushed word of complaint or an annoyed glare at the very least. That he hasn’t been expecting Sherlock to show up at the clinic all day and mistakenly assaulted at least two patients just because they looked suspiciously like someone in disguise. That he isn’t going to Baker Street just because Mary told him to. The last one is true. Though he is loath to admit it and though he’s still spent much of the day debating this with himself, the truth is that he had already made up his mind last night just before falling asleep. So he also has to try to convince himself that it wasn’t the thought of going back to Baker Street that finally allowed him to get a couple of hours’ sleep.

More than anything, John is trying to convince himself that the thought of seeing Sherlock again isn’t making him feel as though a bag of fleas is loose in his gut. Those people who say that nervous anticipation feels like having butterflies in your stomach have obviously never experienced real nervous anticipation. They make it sound as though it is a wonderful, beautiful feeling when in reality it merely feels as though you’re on the brink of a panic attack and wilfully heading straight towards it at a hundred miles an hour. Despite being keenly aware of the embarrassment he’s currently subjecting himself to, John just can’t bring himself to enter. He still has a key, he could just step right in as if he still had a right to call this home, but he needs a moment to compose himself beforehand. Figure out what he’s going to say. Should he be angry? Accusatory? Or should he just say what he should have said yesterday? That he’s angry, that he’s furious, that he’s deeply hurt and that he demands answers before he will even consider forgiveness, but that he’s also just so fiercely glad that… that what? The part of John that is merely hurt and angry is easy enough for him to voice, but what about the not inconsiderable part of him that is simply so relieved, so grateful, so amazed that Sherlock even exists? How is he going to voice that part? In truth, that’s what he’s spent most of his day pondering when he hasn’t been assaulting his patients expecting to find Sherlock underneath a wig and a pair of glasses. John isn’t the sentimental type, never has been, and Sherlock isn’t exactly the type to appreciate it either. It isn’t like either of them to discuss any other feelings than annoyance and frustration with one another. For them to have this conversation… hell, they need to have this conversation, this John knows, but how they’re going to go about having it is an altogether more serious problem.

Maybe he should just get it done. The only way forward is forward. Don’t overthink it, just say what you mean to say. The things you wanted to say, but didn’t say. The things you wanted to say, but never got the chance to say. The things you wanted to say that were for Sherlock’s ears alone and couldn’t be said to anyone else. Say them now.

John squares his shoulders and heads down the street for the front door. Almost right on the doorstep to number 221, a man in a hoodie walking in the opposite direction slams into his shoulder on his way past and John turns to look after him, huffing out an “excuse you”. Before he really understands what’s happening, another man steps up behind him and presses a syringe into his neck. 

It takes him less than a second to react. Despite two years living a fully ordinary, civilian life, John’s time in the military and his time as Sherlock’s partner lie just beneath the surface and he turns and starts to fight almost instantaneously. 

He fights for two seconds. That’s the time it takes for whatever they’ve injected him with to take effect and for his muscles to start relaxing, growing sluggish and useless. Within ten seconds, he’s lying on the pavement, breath heaving out of him and blood rushing in his ears. 

-

The next thing John is aware of is an intense smell of freshly chopped pinewood. It’s dark around him, only small flecks of light passing through. People are talking nearby, but he’s too muddy to make out what’s being said. His head is reeling.

Several seconds pass before his brain starts working enough for him to understand where he is. He’s in a bonfire, that’s what he is. He’s still too sluggish to even begin to wonder why or remember how he got here, but the feel and smell of wood and pine needles combined with the sounds of people talking on all sides of him is at least enough to clue him in to his current position. He wants to shout, but the rest of his body is even less functional than his brain at the moment and he can’t manage to engage his vocal chords. He wants to move, the instinct to _get out_ hitting him strongly, but his muscles still feel sluggish and heavy and he only manages to shift ever so slightly.

A brief flash of fire in between the branches sends his heart rate into the stratosphere. He tries to shout again, but with the same result. He waits then, anticipating every second to hear the horrifying sound of a fire igniting the wood surrounding him. It doesn’t come. The seconds pass, but it seems as though the fire can’t catch on. 

The minutes pass. John tries to move, tries to push away the branches caging in his body, but nothing happens. Suddenly, there’s the sound of liquid being poured combined with an unmistakable scent of gasoline. The deduction is an easy one indeed, and John once again feels his already elevated heart rate accelerate further. 

Some people say that your life flashes before your eyes when you’re in a life-or-death situation. After being shot and nearly bleeding out on the second floor in a deserted and utterly derelict building outside Kandahar, John can testify to the fact that your life indeed does not flash before your eyes. Because you’re too bloody scared to think and the last thing you feel like doing while watching the blood leaving your body at an alarming rate is take a moment to reminisce about childhood fishing trips.

Every sense is working on overdrive. The smell of gasoline seems to burn its way through his nose. Distant laughter sounds almost like an approaching thunderstorm. Then there’s the sound of a match being struck quite nearby followed a second later by a bright flare directly to his left. John shouts then, truly shouts. Forces the air from his lungs and out of his throat. But it’s just too little too late and the sound he does manage to produce is completely overpowered by the roar of the flames. Within a matter of seconds, it’s uncomfortably hot, and though his sight is still blurry from whatever drugs are in his system, the glare of the fire approaching is unmissable. The roar of the flames drums in his ears.

Had his brain been working properly, John might have spent his few remaining seconds reminiscing on things unsaid. As it is, all his brain can manage to come up with is a panicked _this is it_ , repeated over and over again like a steadily accelerating mantra. This is a cruel resemblance of a nightmare, being unable to move away as the flames creep ever closer. Unfortunately, the roar in his ears, the sharp tang in his nostrils and the steadily increasing discomfort from the heat ensures that John can’t possibly dismiss this as just another bad dream. Certainly not one that he can wake up from. 

He can hear voices. The people gathered around the bonfire that’s about to become his funeral pyre are talking, but the words are drowned by the fire. Just background noise. The seconds pass like hours. He’s waiting for inevitability.

Then one voice breaks through the persistent roar. It’s a voice that even John’s drug-addled brain instantly recognizes and a sharp stab of hope shoots through him. There’s no doubt. He would know that voice anywhere. John puts his all into shouting just one more time and Sherlock responds instantly from somewhere to his left. Maybe Sherlock recognizes John’s voice anywhere too. He must, if he manages to both hear and understand the mangled cry for help that John is currently capable of making. 

He sounds panicked. Is he in a panic? Why would he be in a panic? Is he worried about John? That must be it, John can’t think of any other imminent crisis. But he’s seen Sherlock pull poisoned children out of abandoned warehouses and remain calm. That Sherlock sounds panicked now testifies to the fact that he cares and John can feel just a slight bit of that all-encompassing hurt in his chest evaporate as those two puzzle pieces click.

And then there’s a rustling of leaves and branches around his feet and Sherlock is pulling him out and he’s shouting his name and cupping his face and John’s vision is still blurry but Sherlock’s face is about the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life and that thought is said out loud in his head before he has time to stop it. Mary’s even blurrier face is registered only as an afterthought.

Had John been feeling more himself, he would have registered this as something just a bit not good. Had John been feeling more himself, he would have had to explain it all away, to find some sort of explanation and make his excuses. Then he would have spent the next couple of days feeling conflicted about it anyway. But John isn’t feeling like himself right now. He isn’t fully conscious. The rational side of his mind is just as drugged as the rest of him and too sluggish to insist that he shouldn’t feel the way he feels, that friends don’t consider each other beautiful and that boyfriends should focus on their girlfriends instead of their friends when asked to choose. Now this feeling he’s having simply registers as the only natural response in the face of the current situation before slipping between his fingers and into oblivion. He won’t remember it later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reuploaded to add what should have been the beginning of the third chapter. I just felt that it fitted in better here. I've decided to make the chapters longer from here on out, which might mean that new chapters will take longer in coming out. I apologise for that.
> 
> These two first chapters have been such downers, I'm sorry. I'm afraid this is hurt/comfort with a very long way to go before we get to the comfort.
> 
> That being said, I really hope you're enjoying the story. If you want, please, please, please comment and/or give kudos, they're the stuff dreams are made of and I really appreciate your feedback. You can also contact me on my tumblr, @the-signs-of-two, if you have any comments, questions or just want to get talking. I'm always open for that!


	3. Gateway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am at last with the third chapter of Icebergs! That whole posting a new chapter every month thing died pretty quickly, didn't it? I'm sorry about that, new semester can be a bit of a b-word.
> 
> If you haven't noticed, I expanded the last chapter with another segment, so please go back and read that if you haven't already before proceeding. 
> 
> The first two chapters were very introductory, but from here on out, the story is really going to take off. I didn't want to put this directly in the tags, because Icebergs is a fanfic first and foremost, but the story is a bit of a meta disguised as a fic and perhaps also an S4-fix it in some ways. I really hope you will enjoy this and subsequent chapters and please feel free to comment if you want, it's a great motivation to me!

24 hours, one case, one bomb and one near-death experience later, things are starting to feel just remotely back to normal, if normal is even a word that can be applied to anything concerning Sherlock Holmes. During the next couple of weeks, they fall back into most of their old habits. They start solving cases again. Sherlock insults away only to pull the rug out from underneath everyone else in as dramatic a reveal as possible. John writes his notes and reopens his blog. On the surface, their friendship seems to simply pick up where it left off and march on as though the last two years hasn’t happened. On the surface, it seems as though both John and Sherlock have been on stand-by and now continue on with their shared lives, the same as always.

Beneath the surface, however, John is fairly certain that he’s not the only one who notices that things aren’t as they seem. Everything is strange. It’s _almost_ reminiscent of how it used to be – Sherlock and John, Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly and idiot police officers and tea and solving cases and working things out – and yet, somehow, it’s completely different. Mary is here now, most of the time. She lets them go out and solve cases on their own, to John’s extremely private relief. But she stops by more often than not in the afternoon. Sherlock seems to agree with her presence, which is surprising to say the least. Sherlock is against new people. That’s what he’s always said. He prefers to see the same faces around him every day. For a man as averse to redundancy, routine and established rules as Sherlock, he does live his life following certain habits. The people around him seem to become habits for him as well, a touch of stability to draw comfort from in his otherwise quite unruly and impulsive life.

With that in mind, Sherlock’s almost immediate acceptance of Mary’s presence, her intrusion into a sphere previously containing just John and Sherlock, comes as a welcome surprise. They get along fairly well, at least that’s what John thinks. Mary thankfully isn’t put off by Sherlock’s sometimes unreasonable personality and habits. She isn’t a nuisance or a lag either, as some of John’s previous girlfriends has tended to be. Overall, Mary’s presence is more than tolerable and her growing influence on their at-home crime solving sessions has directed them towards a solution on more than one occasion.

But that’s where the difficulty arises. Mary isn’t a passive participant, a presence unfelt. She makes herself very known and, though Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind and John doesn’t feel that he should either, it isn’t the same as before. They’re doing exactly the same things as they used to do two years ago, but Mary’s presence has altered their dynamic in a pretty drastic way, one that John is having a very hard time ignoring. John isn’t able to give Sherlock his undivided attention for hours as he used to. Sherlock no longer directs all his inquiries towards John. (Does Sherlock talk to Mary too when she isn’t there? That thought leaves John with a bad taste in his mouth.)

But that’s what happens in serious relationships, isn’t it? You begin interacting with people as a couple. You meet new people together and your old friends become common friends. A shift in the dynamic of previous friendships should come as no surprise. It’s normal, isn’t it? Healthy even.

Truth to be told, it’s not just Mary’s presence that makes everything feel different either. Sherlock is different too, though John has a hard time pinpointing exactly wherein the difference lies.

He’s a bit more quiet for starters. Sherlock has always been a loudmouth, saying whatever he wants to at whatever time he wants to, to John’s chagrin without much concern for diplomacy or even common decency. He’s still like that most of the time, but there’s a silence about him now that John can’t remember ever having seen before. Most of the time, he’s just as domineering and grand as John remembers. But then there’s other times when he speaks in a quiet, almost subdued manner, or doesn’t speak at all for long periods of time. He’s gone home early from cases a couple of times, complaining of a headache. Missing out on a case because of something that, to Sherlock’s mind, must be categorised as nothing more than a minor inconvenience is something he’s never done before. It’s gotten to a point now that John seriously feels the need to bring it up or even suggest that he go see a doctor about it, but Sherlock just shrugs off any questions and puts it down to a lack of food or drink, which is admittedly plausible. 

Apart from that first night when John didn’t have the energy or indeed the mood to listen, Sherlock hasn’t mentioned his activities or whereabouts during the last couple of years with more than a sentence or two thrown in every once in a while.

And then there’s the looks. At first John thought that it was just something he was imagining, but now he’s not so sure. They’ve always looked at each other of course. That’s hardly avoidable when living together for nearly two years. Maintaining eye contact is nothing unheard of for them either. They’ve often done so in the past. Sometimes, if John is being honest, a bit longer and a bit more intensely than what could be considered normal between friends.

But this is different. There’s so much meaning in those looks now. Sherlock seems to seek John out with his eyes as soon as he enters the room and refuse to look away when John meets his gaze. He's always looked away before, leaving John with the impression of being observed rather than being sought out for any sort of communication. It's not like that now. Now they’ll just stand there looking at each other without saying anything and yet it feels as though they’re saying everything. Only John isn’t quite sure what it is that they’re saying.

The first time happened right on the stairs up to 221B a couple of days after the scene at the restaurant. The first proper moment they’d had since Sherlock’s return where it was just the two of them. It had seemed as good a moment as any to at least try to say something. “Sherlock, you are going to tell me how you did it? How you jumped off that building and survived?” he’d asked. He’d tried to make the question sound light, like the whole thing had been nothing more than a well-executed trick. For all John knows, it might have been to Sherlock.

Sherlock hadn’t even looked at him as he’d replied “You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible.” The pompous bastard.

“No, but seriously. When you were dead, I went to your grave.”

“I should hope so.” The all-too familiar wall firmly in place between them.

“I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you.”

Sherlock had turned at that, looked at him. “I know. I was there.”

That had given John a bit of pause. Had he actually _been_ there? Attended his own funeral, hidden or in disguise? Sounded like something he might actually do. But why should he? Just to see how upset they’d all be? The anger had resurfaced for a moment there. Until the thought arrived that Sherlock might have attended his funeral not to see people be upset, strictly speaking, but to see if anyone _would_ be upset. It had taken John considerable willpower to say anything more.

“I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead.”

And that had been it. The look in Sherlock’s eyes then, the softness of his voice as he all but whispered “I heard you”. It had felt a bit like taking a punch to the stomach. It had felt a bit like having the air knocked out of him. That look and that voice had been unfamiliar, something that John at the time had never gotten from Sherlock before. At least not in any way that had impressed strongly enough upon his mind for him to still remember it.

It had lasted no longer than a couple of seconds, three to four in John’s estimation, but it had felt considerably longer. Then Sherlock had turned around and headed outside, the moment broken.

Until it happened again. And again. And again.

By now, it’s happened at least half a dozen times. It should start to feel like a routine, a new part of their dynamic just like Mary is. It just doesn’t. It catches John unawares every time and steals his complete attention. It seems a bit not good, to be honest.

They don’t talk about it. Sherlock seems downright averse to serious conversations at the moment, preferring their casual banter of old. Despite this, it seems to John as though he’s actively pursuing their newly established moments. As though he’s either counting on John to somehow figure out what it is he’s trying to communicate or, just like John, struggling to figure out how to begin this conversation that they keep not having. Well, if Sherlock is waiting for John to figure out the meaning of it, he is in for a disappointment. John can barely figure out how to breathe properly while it happens, how could Sherlock possibly expect him to pick up on whatever that look is supposed to mean?

Which is perhaps what’s at the centre of all this confusion. John doesn’t know what it means. Not Sherlock’s disappearance, not Sherlock’s reappearance, not those looks, not how it makes John feel, not any of it.  
Sherlock is back. He’s actually here and alive and it really is him. Which means that all those things that were left unsaid, all those things that John couldn’t bring himself to say to neither his therapist nor Mary nor even Sherlock’s tombstone, all of those things are now relevant again.

While Sherlock was… well, while he was gone, in lack of a more suitable phrase, John couldn’t talk about it. And although it was constantly somewhere just on the edge of conscious thought, he didn’t think about it directly either. In hindsight, perhaps he’d thought that it was irrelevant to really analyse it, dissect it as Sherlock would a week-old corpse and try to make something of it. Any conclusion would be too late anyway. Except now it’s not. Now it’s a very relevant subject and it seems to only increase in importance as the days go by and the atmosphere between the two of them shifts. First mischievous crime solving as though the last two years hasn’t happened at all. Then awkward manoeuvring aimed at getting three people to fit into a space developed for two. And finally downright horrendous moments of suspended eye contact and emotional conversations rising to the surface without being spoken before the cycle starts all over again. John feels as though he might go mad.

Neither John nor Sherlock has ever really tried to define what it is they have. At some point, the term colleague was replaced with friend. Then friend was thrown aside with no new definition taking its place. John wishes fiercely that they could talk about these things, especially now. But Sherlock isn’t one to discuss his thoughts, especially not now apparently and, as always, especially not when feelings are concerned. John can almost hear him say it – _feelings_ – in his most disgusted tone, as though it’s a bad word that he finds it below himself to pronounce.

If they could talk about these things, what would Sherlock say? Would he call John a friend? Is that something Sherlock can do, calling another person his friend in a situation where he’s not just saying whatever he can come up with in order to either apologise or manipulate? John honestly don’t know. That’s the thing about Sherlock. It’s always the unexpected.

So perhaps the question is what John himself would say. Given the opportunity, and enough stamina to not let that opportunity slip away, what should he say? He already said some of the things he has regretted not saying before. On the tube the night after Sherlock returned. He’d said that Sherlock is the best and the wisest man that John has ever known. He’d said that to Sherlock’s face and Sherlock had listened and hopefully understood that John means it. Even if he afterwards revealed that he’d once again been just about the biggest cock in the history of the world and made John talk under false pretences. It doesn’t really matter. John had been looking for an opportunity to say it anyway.

Still, even acknowledging that Sherlock is the best and the wisest man that John has ever known merely scratches the surface and John isn’t sure how well Sherlock would respond to the rest of it. Hell, he isn’t even sure how well he would respond to the rest of it.

All those things John has been holding back for years. All those things he couldn’t tell Sherlock or his therapist or Mary or anyone else. All those things he can barely tell himself, even in the privacy of his own head. All those things that keep resurfacing over and over again. While Sherlock was the only one John was close to. While Sherlock was gone. While John was in therapy. While John was alone and in mourning and curled up in the foetal position in the darkest corner of his bedroom. While John was out drinking to cope. While John was with Mary. While John proposed. And now while Sherlock is back and John is technically engaged. It’s like having a song stuck in your head. You can’t get rid of it. You can’t let it go until you’ve finished it and John doesn’t know the words.

-

Sherlock takes a breath in, holding it for a second before letting it out again as deeply as possible. He empties his lungs as best he can and pictures himself opening the front door of his mind palace. Opens his eyes to look down the hallway even though his eyes in the body lying on the sofa remain closed. 

Everything is ordered here, every item has its place. Beside the door, there’s a small table with a few case files underpinned by a pocket knife, a coffee mug decorated with the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps and a small card containing a phone number with the words _For Emergencies_ written underneath in Sherlock’s own, slightly shaky hand. Further down, the hallway merges into a long, narrow corridor with doors on both sides. Most of them are in perfect order. There’s a near-perfect recreation of Baker Street behind door three. (It would be a perfect replica if not for John and Mrs. Hudson moving things around in his flat and upsetting his system. If only his socks were as easy to locate in the real flat as they are in his recreation of it.)

Recently, though, Sherlock has noticed that a few of the doors now have a noticeboard beside them saying _Closed until further notice_. That in itself isn’t a problem. Sherlock has an entire storage compartment dedicated to things he’d rather forget about, at least temporarily. Among them, as far as Sherlock recalls, is a calendar of birthdays, some family photographs, a couple of lists with headings such as _Names of Minor People_ and _Places to Avoid_ and a box filled with random bits and bobs that Sherlock hasn’t had time to sort through just yet. He recently pulled out a flight manual for a Boeing 737 and a guide on how to safely get rid of a Molotov Cocktail from in between a recipe for Egg Rolls and a book of German fairy tales. Though Sherlock keeps most of his mind palace perfectly ordered, rooms used more or less exclusively as dumping grounds for random facts awaiting deletion isn’t disconcerting in and of itself. Rooms covered in barricade tape, however, is quite another story.

As if that wasn’t concerning enough, a small note has recently been hung up above the table in the main hallway. He’s looking at it now. It’s written in his own hand. _Water leakage in basement corridor_. And underneath that _Highest priority, fix by Thursday_. In the upper left-hand corner, Sherlock has scrawled the date: three weeks before.

He probably ought to do something about this. It’s long overdue, who knows how it’ll look down there? He’s almost afraid to look.

But ignoring a problem won’t make it go away. Sherlock plucks the notice off the wall, folding it away carefully in his breast pocket before making his way down the hallway.

He lets his hand run across the door to Baker Street as he passes it by.

At the very end of the hallway, there’s another door. This one is different. The other doors down this hallway are mahogany with gold handles. This one is made of metal and feels cold to the touch. A padlock keeps it permanently locked and bolted. It gives Sherlock pause, which is the whole reason it’s here. To remind him that there are things behind this door requiring a padlock to keep them in and a padlock to keep him out. Had the water leakage been anywhere else, Sherlock would have had it fixed straight away. A water leakage down here is something he’d rather ignore. But that’s the thing about a water leakage: it spreads.

Slowly, almost meticulously, Sherlock retrieves the key from the bottom of a nearby bowl. It’s one of those horrendous vintages with decoration painted on. This one depicts a house set in its own grounds, partly obscured by lush vegetation. In the foreground, two children and a dog are playing among the trees. Ugly thing, really. He definitely ought to replace that.

With a bit of effort, the padlock is removed and the door swings open on creaking hinges. Behind it, a poorly illuminated staircase leading downwards. Cement walls. Bare lightbulbs momentarily blinding him as he looks at them. When they don’t flicker. He really should get some of this fixed. Install new appliances and maybe give the whole thing a fresh coat of paint. He just can’t find the energy to get it done. It’s so cold down here.

At the bottom of the stairs, yet another door. This one comes equipped with a passcode system reminiscent of a safe.

7437\. Enter.

Passcode accepted.

It’s worse than Sherlock thought. The atmosphere in here is thick with damp, the humidity so high that small puddles have started forming on the floor. Water is seeping out from underneath several of the doors. The lights flicker. Sherlock remains by the door, indecisive about where to start and unwilling to get his shoes wet. These doors are all but foreign to him. Upstairs, he can find anything of importance within a few seconds. Down here is storage, though nothing like his proper storage room upstairs. A new door is formed not by meticulous organisation and deposition, but by throwing things into boxes, securing them as best he can, closing the door upon them and locking everything in. Sherlock has a vague idea what periods of his life are covered by which doors, but the exact contents remain thankfully unknown to him. Under normal circumstances.

He steps forward. One step, two steps, three steps, four…

There’s a low splash as his left foot descends on a puddle. Sherlock looks down instinctively.

It’s not a creak. It’s a roar of deafening proportions, as though an earthquake is about to tear the entire construction apart. His head feels ready to explode. God, just stop it, stop it, _stop it_! Even his physical body lying on the sofa in safe, familiar Baker Street opens his mouth in a silent scream and Sherlock vaguely feels himself digging his fingernails into his own forehead in an attempt to alleviate the pressure. The intolerable noise is evidently distracting him enough that he’s slipping out of his mind palace. _No, can’t do that, not safe, have to close the door_. It takes an absurd amount of willpower to reconnect with his phantom leg and lift his foot from the puddle.

The noise quietens. It doesn’t go away. _It doesn’t go away_. It doesn’t even return to it’s former, more or less tolerable level. It just subsides enough for Sherlock to regain his footing. His awareness of his physical body diminishes as he slips fully back into his mind palace once again. His first action is to take a step back towards the door, infused with an overwhelming desire to just run away and lock, lock, lock the door on this whole floor. Forget about water leakages and damp and puddles and noise and all of it. Emotional response. Impulse. Sherlock hurries to suppress it. _Oh, Sherlock, you know nothing_.

What to do? This is evidently proving to be a far more complex problem than he initially judged it to be. He’d thought that most of the damage inflicted on his mind palace over the last couple of years had gotten under control again. Well... hypothesis unsustainable.

But God, that noise! Sherlock can’t even pinpoint where exactly it’s coming from, only that it sounds like nails dragging over chalkboard amplified by a factor ten. The likely point of origin is behind one of these doors, but Sherlock isn’t quite sure which and that makes him hesitant to explore further. He doesn’t know what’s behind these doors, he doesn’t know what he might find. That’s the whole point of the basement: storing things away that Sherlock either can’t seem to get rid of no matter how hard he’s tried or knows he might need for a later date, but has no desire to engage with on a daily basis. It could be anything from any period of his life. A truly discouraging thought. _You remember everything, every single thing. You just need a big enough hard drive and you have it. So why can’t you remember?_

_Shut up. You do remember._

_Do you now?_

So how to proceed? Going down here has evidently done little to appease the problem. If anything, going by the now amplified creaking, it might actually have worsened. Proceeding further seems a leap of faith that Sherlock isn’t quite sure he dares to take. Still, submitting to his own gut feeling is not a step that Sherlock takes easily no matter the circumstances. That’s not how this is supposed to work. This is supposed to be logical. He is supposed to be logical. But he’s… God, he’s scared, isn’t he? Isn’t that what he’s experiencing? Fear? _Well, you would know, wouldn’t you, Sherlock?_

_Shut up._

_It’s okay if you’re scared._

_You’re not scared, you’re fine, everything is under control._

The atmosphere down here is so thick and damp that it’s cloying. It reminds him of a Serbian cell he does not wish to be reminded of.

_To deny is as much a deviation from the truth as to exaggerate. You always feel it, Sherlock. But you know what to do about it, don’t you?_

_Shut up!_

Suddenly, he can’t stand it. He can’t stay here, he needs to get out! He needs to shut the door, lock it, bolt it, place a dresser in front of it if that’s what it takes! Sherlock turns and slams the door behind him, automatic locks clicking back in place. Up, up, up, now! He nearly stumbles on the stairs in his hurry. He wants out now. He wants to go back to the safety of Baker Street, back to the safety of the real world. His hand reaches for the handle of the door and…

Sherlock opens his eyes to the sound of a text alert. His muscles are relaxed. His breathing is easy. At least that’s as expected. 

The mind palace is meant to be a memory technique. A mental landscape for Sherlock to move through in order to locate information. It isn’t meant to affect him physically and it isn’t meant to take any effort to get out of. Although Sherlock emerges himself on a much more fundamental level than what you’re generally advised to do, he’s not completely dislocated from his own body while in the mind palace. He’s always aware that what he’s seeing is not real. He’s always aware, however faintly, of what’s going on around his real body. Which is to say that Sherlock is always aware that he isn’t actually locked in anywhere and can just open his eyes whenever he feels like it. Primary conclusion: The mind palace is still functioning accordingly and everything is under control despite a failure to properly locate and fix the leakage. Secondary conclusion: How exactly he just managed to experience claustrophobia in his own mind palace is a bit unclear at present.

Sherlock doesn’t exactly use his mind palace the way it’s meant to be used, of course. In its simplest form, the mind palace is meant to work like looking at a map with each dot representing a specific piece of information. It can then be elaborated to look like a specific location, each item, room or segment being assigned a meaning. That’s the model that Sherlock started with and it worked for years. A recreation of his bedroom at his parents’ house morphing into his flat on Montague Street morphing into the living room at Baker Street to store personal information. A briefing room that was elaborated as Sherlock actually went to a police station for the first time to store information relevant to any on-going cases. A laboratory to store information on chemistry, as well as some of his more job-specific knowledge. And a storeroom for anything not fitting neatly into any of the other rooms, equipped with a computer for Sherlock to quickly search for any specific information he might need. It worked perfectly.

During his time away from London, though, Sherlock has been forced to pass an awful lot of time waiting and hiding. He’s spent that time exploring deeper into his mind palace and it looks as though his mind palace has changed as a result. It’s not just a map of references anymore. Sherlock _feels_ things. When he slides his hand across a sofa, he can feel the texture of the fabric under his fingers. When he enters the basement, he can feel the cold emanating from the walls. Just now, when he ran up the stairs, he’d felt the strain in his muscles.

It’s fascinating to say the least. As soon as he opens his eyes, there’s nothing. No lingering touch, no coldness, no sore muscles. It’s just in his head, it’s not _real_ , Sherlock _knows_ this. And yet there are times when it feels as real as a pinch.

Sherlock stores that conundrum away for later analysis and reaches out for his phone.

From: John. Time: 3:21 PM. _Sorry, can’t make it today. Nasty stomach bug situation at the clinic._

Sherlock puts the phone back on the table and gathers his hands in front of him. Not completely unexpected. John cancels their appointments more often than he used to, doesn’t he? A part of Sherlock chips in with the unwelcome contribution that that’s only to be expected when two people stop living together, even more so when one of them makes the decision to get engaged. Sherlock hurries to strangle that thought before it has time to develop properly.

It’s a shame, really. Looking around, even Sherlock can admit to the flat needing a thorough clean up in the near future and he had almost considered doing so today to avoid John’s inevitable outrage. John has a way with words in these situations, but his way with bodily postures and expressions of exacerbation are in a league of their own, and Sherlock likes to think that he’s willing to go to great lengths to avoid witnessing them. Within certain limits, of course. But now cleaning up is definitely out of the question. What’s the point in cleaning up an empty flat?

From: Sherlock. Time: 3:24 PM. _Received – SH_

_Sadness is a pop song._

Sherlock virtually jumps. Scans the room for any sign of an intruder. There’s nothing. _No one_.


	4. Ninety-Five Seconds to Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the wonderful world of delays! I did actually have this chapter mostly wrapped up and finished about a week ago, but I've been nasty sick since last Friday, so... here it is at last! Thank you so much to everyone who's reading this. I really hope you enjoy!

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick, tick, tick, tick… _Shut up._

His fingers drag across the definitely not recently vacuumed living room rug. A slight tinkling as the fabric passes underneath his finger pads. An annoying interruption in the form of what’s most likely crumbs from a piece of toast he had for breakfast a couple of days ago. His eyes drag across the definitely not recently occupied second armchair.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. In his mind’s eye, he’s picturing a pendulum clock, slowly swinging back and forth. In reality, he’s just listening to a boring boring _boring_ analog clock as it counts the seconds out painfully loud.

He should really get up. Get up, get dressed and perhaps finally do that bit of cleaning he’s thought about for so long. John and Mary are coming later, most definitely. They’ve been busy lately, unable to catch a break at work. Sherlock can understand that. But it puts them under quite a bit of pressure to get things done today, doesn’t it? There are a lot of things one must take into consideration when one is planning a wedding, a lot more than Sherlock could have imagined. And the day is just a couple of months away…

He should really get up. He is responsible for making this whole thing a success, he can’t just lay here when John is counting on him getting things done and making preparations. That John would trust him enough to make Sherlock the best man at his wedding… something like that comes with obligations. John has described this as the biggest and most important day of his life. And letting John down on the biggest and most important day of his life is something that Sherlock simply won’t allow himself to do.

-

It comes as a decided surprise that Sherlock takes part in the wedding preparations to the extent that he does. Sherlock Holmes and getting lost in twenty minute discussions about which bakery makes the best marzipan to top off a wedding cake is not a combination that John would ever have come up with on his own. If he is being honest, Sherlock seems to be at least as motivated as he is. And sometimes, John can’t help but notice that it feels a bit as though it’s Mary and Sherlock who are getting married, the two of them discussing napkin colours, bouquet compositions and table arrangements with the greatest care and attention while John struggles to form an informed opinion on four slices of identically tasting white cake. It’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s just that there are limits to how much in detail John wants to go in preparation for a party that’s still several months away. Who can honestly tell the difference between plum and mulberry anyway? 

It’s not that he doesn’t care.

Right at the moment, Sherlock and Mary are deep in a discussion that John is fairly certain concerns whether it’s a good idea to keep the same flowers throughout or whether it’s better to choose one composition for the entrance and another for the tables. At the same time, Sherlock looks to be researching wines that go well with salmon on his laptop while Mary is picking out fonts for the wedding invitations. It’s been almost ten minutes since either of them has spoken a word to John. Perhaps they’re counting on him doing whatever it was that they told him to do ten minutes ago.

There was never any real doubt in John's mind who he wanted his best man to be. He's never considered asking anyone else. Even so, when he did ask Sherlock to be best man, he had thought it a somewhat risky question to ask. With Sherlock’s highly vocal rejection of anything to do with tradition and emotion, the epitome of both of which is the wedding, John wouldn’t have put it past him to simply and blatantly refuse. And even when Sherlock did accept, John hadn’t exactly counted on him being willing to do very much at all in terms of planning the actual event. Which goes to show. John might be the one person to know Sherlock the best and the one person to appreciate Sherlock the most. And yet Sherlock somehow manages to continuously catch him off guard and either exceed all of his expectations or cause him to have a crisis of faith. 

God forbid that the inner machinations of Sherlock Holmes should ever be revealed to mere mortals.

Mary has been typing away for the past couple of minutes, but she gets up now, announcing apropos of nothing and to no one in particular that there’s no more tea in the pot. She passes John en route for the kitchen. He can hear her moving about behind his back, putting the kettle on and saying, again apropos of nothing and to no one in particular, that Sherlock’s experiments pose a health hazard and that he needs to move them further away from the food. John doesn’t know why it annoys him. He does agree, after all, and has told Sherlock the exact same thing on multiple occasions. Sherlock seems to neither mind nor care. He simply makes a sound that could be interpreted as either an affirmation or an indifferent huff and continues scrolling through a wine list from what looks to be a place that John and Mary can’t afford to purchase wine from, the results of Sherlock's investigation be damned.

John lets his gaze wander from the wine list to Sherlock’s face, noticing for what seems like the umpteenth time lately that he is looking tired and pale. Not in a very noticeable way, Sherlock does look superficially alright. But one doesn’t have to be the world’s only consulting detective to notice the dark circles underneath the slightly red rimmed eyes. It suffices to be a doctor knowing the patient well. Sherlock clearly doesn’t sleep enough at the moment, but that’s nothing new. John can verify from personal experience that Sherlock’s sleep cycle is highly disturbed at best. He has a habit of staying awake around the clock while on a case and then burn out completely and recuperate for days on end after wrapping it up. Somehow, through the years, his body seems to have learned how to cope with that. The only problem is that, as far as John is aware, Sherlock is between cases at the moment. And yet he’s been looking less than his best for weeks. To John’s great relief, his hair and clothes are as immaculate as ever, demonstrating that he is still making an effort and thus not under the influence of anything other than sleep deprivation and boredom. To John’s great discomfort, he seems utterly indifferent to the prospect of finding a new case, devoting himself entirely to the wedding preparations. John really ought to check up on him.

“Sherlock…”

“Hm?” Sherlock turns to face him, their eyes interlocking. John opens his mouth.

But that’s the thing about all these conversations that they keep not having. It just never seems to be the opportune moment. John closes his mouth again.

As Mary returns from the kitchen, fresh pot of tea in hand, she stops to place a kiss on the top of John’s head and Sherlock turns away again, returning his attention to the screen. Sherlock always looks away when John and Mary are kissing, at least as far as John can tell. It might be that Sherlock has convinced himself that watching people kiss is in opposition to his logical principles, as though just observing other people being intimate could somehow be a source of emotional contamination. It might just be something that John is imagining. 

Which is admittedly a likely scenario all things considered.

“Find anything interesting?” When Mary is this close, her perfume mixes with all the familiar scents from Baker Street, cigarettes and tea and various chemical odours from Sherlock's experiments. It doesn't really go well together.

“I’m not quite sure to be honest.” Were he really honest, he’d say that he isn’t quite sure what he’s looking for. That he forgot approximately ten seconds after being told what he should do and that he’s just been sitting here in his own thoughts for the past quarter of an hour. 

But he's not really honest. Not about anything.

-

It’s several days before John has another free afternoon. Mary has another appointment with a friend of hers that John doesn’t particularly care for and she seems agreeable enough when he airs the idea of going to Baker Street after work. “Are you going to solve a case then?” she asks in that familiar tone of voice that John can’t decide whether to interpret as admiration or sarcasm. 

“Possibly. It doesn’t seem like he has much on at the moment.”

Mary reappears in the doorway, shaking out her umbrella. The skies have practically opened up outside. “You should find him one then. Show him it’s still the good old days.”

“Yeah, I’m trying.”'

“Try harder then. It’ll reassure him, I promise.”

It’s not the first time Mary has suggested this. According to her, Sherlock will calm down about the wedding if he’s reassured that it won’t change anything. Her deduction, as she jokingly likes to refer to it, is that Sherlock is actually quite terrified by the prospect and currently overdoing it in terms of enthusiasm and planning just to get it over with. John isn’t quite sure what to think about her theory. The idea of Sherlock Holmes faking enthusiasm at the prospect of a social event seems farfetched. But then again, John can’t come up with any other plausible explanation for Sherlock’s behaviour and, to be quite honest, any suggestions to stop Sherlock going off on a veritable wedding planning spree are welcome at this point.

“I’ll do my best. A seven or eight might lure him out.”

-

Mary’s kisses are nearly always clinical. Brief, but insistent. Quite a bit of pressure between their mouths. No hesitance, limited delicacy, but quite reassuring all the same. Firm. The kisses of a nurse. It’s only on very rare occasions, usually in the throes of passion, that she kisses him in a different way. More demanding, more passionate, more risky. Less of a statement that we belong together and more of an affirmation that we’re here and we’re willing and to hell with it all. John likes when she does that. Though he’s loath to admit it, her usual kisses can sometimes feel a bit… _impersonal._

The kiss they share just outside the clinic before heading off in different directions isn’t exactly one of passion, but perhaps the setting isn’t really right either. Mary once again reminds him to go find Sherlock a case and John once again reassures her that he’ll do his best and that he’ll let her know if it’s going to be late.

Of course the route from the clinic to Baker Street is one John has travelled many a time, way too familiar to keep him distracted on the way. Instead, inevitably, his thoughts drift towards Sherlock and Mary’s theory. Could Sherlock really be worried about the wedding? There’s nothing to worry about. John just got him back. He isn’t going to let him go again. Though John still feels both anger and frustration whenever he thinks about what Sherlock made him go through, the sheer relief of having Sherlock back, of knowing that he’s here and alive and well… John isn’t going to let him go again. Not for anything in the world. No matter what happens with him and Mary, John and Sherlock are a thing and they’ll never stop doing this. Solving cases and drinking tea and laughing at things that the rest of the world don’t understand. Surely Sherlock knows this. They might not be very good at talking about what they have, neither of them really excels at communication when it comes to anything concerning feelings, but it seems absurd to assume that Sherlock should be worried about the wedding.

But then again. Sherlock’s brain works differently from everyone else’s. This John knows. Who can ever know what’s going on in that brilliant head of his? He’d certainly seemed more than a little surprised to hear that John consider him as his best friend, a fact that John had thought was perfectly obvious. His list of friends isn’t long, half of them are people he has met through Sherlock for Christ’s sake, and the distance between his number one and two is considerable. If Sherlock didn’t get that until John spelled it out for him… well, perhaps Mary’s theory isn’t so far out after all and John vows to let Sherlock know exactly how things stand.

-

Everything is as it should be at Baker Street. John lets himself in using his own key that he still keeps at the insistence of both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, shouting a greeting in the direction of 221A on his way up the stairs and receiving Mrs. Hudson’s reply at the halfway point as per their usual routine. Sherlock is in the kitchen, bend almost in half over his microscope, and his only greeting when John opens the door to 221B is little more than a noncommittal hum to let him know where to look. As soon as John enters the kitchen, though, Sherlock has looked up, apparently all set and ready to start his explanation. And for the next five minutes, John can’t get as much as a general “how are you?” wedged in between the long list of ergo’s and from which it follow’s streaming out of Sherlock’s mouth at a frankly alarming rate. 

While John tries to at least pretend to keep up with Sherlock’s monologue, it suddenly occurs to him that it’s been a long time since Sherlock has done this, speed-talking while trying to explain something he finds of interest. It’s been quite a while since they’ve had an afternoon like this with no Mary to navigate around, no clients to listen to and no wedding planning to get done, just an afternoon for the two of them alone to do with as they please. And for just a short moment, the sheer amount of _Sherlock_ exuding from the man as he tries to get John to understand the basics of proteinogenic amino acid combinations in peptide chains is enough to make John forget all about the various trivialities and problems on his mind. Because it might be four o’clock in the afternoon after a long, uninspiring day at work and a twenty minute walk in the rain, but _God_ he’s missed this and he can’t help but smile at Sherlock in a way that even John himself recognises as being a bit not good. It must certainly be very noticeable at least, since it causes Sherlock to momentarily cease his explanations in favour of raising an eyebrow quizzically. 

John chuckles and shakes his head good-humouredly, Sherlock smiles back just a little hesitantly and then resumes his explanations. 

John listens. But that hesitant smile that John would have described as being a bit shy if it had graced the face of anyone else than Sherlock Holmes is enough to make a feeling spread throughout his chest that John isn’t quite sure he wants to dwell on for too long.

Sherlock unwittingly spares him that as he finally ceases talking and leans back in his chair with that all too familiar “do you get it now?”-expression that John mainly associates with everyone else definitely not getting it and most people being, if possible, even further from understanding the problem than before Sherlock began his explanations. So John merely nods and says “right” in a tone of voice that they both recognise instantly even though that hasn’t been used in quite a while either. It’s John’s old way of saying _I didn’t get a word of what you just said and no ordinary human being ever would when you’re like that_ while at the same time letting Sherlock know that he doesn’t mind and is more amused than annoyed. 

Sherlock seems to be just as aware of the nostalgic mood as John is, lighting up in another smile and chuckling under his breath. “And you call yourself a doctor.”

John chuckles as well. “I call myself a human being, that’s what. A human being with ears, thank you very much.”

“Funny you should mention them, seeing as you don’t seem to use them all that much,” Sherlock retorts, a playful glimmer in his eyes and smirk that John has missed almost too fiercely for words. He looks so much better when he smiles. So much healthier than he has for the last couple of months. Not quite as fatigued either, though the dark circles under his eyes are just a little bit too obvious under the bright lights in the kitchen. “Careful now,” John warns, feigning indignation, and Sherlock’s smirk widens.

Remembering Mary’s advice from this morning, and remembering the other three times or so that she has brought it up during the last couple of days, John moves on to the subject of a new case. He glances down at the petri dish underneath Sherlock’s microscope. “So… other than contaminating everything while carrying out chemical experiments in a part of the house intended for the preparation of food for human consumption, do you have any other pressing engagements?”

Sherlock sighs softly and shakes his head, stretching his arms overhead. “Mm, can’t say that I have. Which was the reason for, you know…” He gestures towards the microscope half-heartedly.

“You don’t have anything on then? At all?” This takes John slightly by surprise. As far as he is aware, Sherlock hasn’t been working all that much for quite a while now. That usually equals one very full inbox and one very impatient Sherlock, dying to get on with a new case. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be very much in a hurry at all, shrugging and putting the petri dish aside. 

“Not at the moment. I received a couple of inquiries last week, but I ended up deleting them seeing as I didn’t know when I would have the time to look into it properly. You know how a problem can absorb me, I have to finish what I start. And I couldn’t do that right now with you and Mary and the wedding.” Sherlock says this as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. But it’s not. It’s very far from natural, especially Sherlock’s natural, and John isn’t sure how to interpret this new information, whether he should feel flattered by Sherlock’s obvious dedication or worried by just how much this whole wedding arrangement seems to govern Sherlock at the moment. Whether Mary is right or not, this wedding is clearly an important event for Sherlock and too much so if it’s stopping him from going on cases. That has got to stop, John can’t stand for that. Being best man doesn’t equal putting your whole life on standby until the wedding just so you can be available for wedding planning twenty-four seven. For Christ’s sake. How utterly typical of Sherlock to overdo it. And yet how utterly beside himself Sherlock must be if he’s putting off cases to prepare for a social, _emotional event_ of all things.

John settles for a chuckle that definitely doesn’t come out as relaxed as he would have liked it to. “Sherlock… as much as I appreciate all your help with the wedding and everything…” Christ, he really ought to think through what he’s going to say before he begins to say it. His impromptu reaction is to tell Sherlock that the wedding really isn’t that big of a deal, but he obviously can’t say that. He’s the groom for fuck’s sake. And now Sherlock is looking at him, waiting for the continuation. Christ, he really ought to think through what he’s going to say before he begins to say it. 

Sherlock looks almost worried, a slight frown visible between his eyebrows. As though he’s expecting John to say something he doesn’t want to hear. John takes another moment to formulate a reasonable argument before going for it. “Don’t go overboard with it, alright? It’s an important day, but you don’t have to devote all your time to the preparations. Hell, Mary and I don’t do that and it’s our wedding. You’re allowed a life of your own, you know?”

Sherlock doesn’t look convinced. If anything, his frown has deepened and a barely perceptible _hurt_ expression has entered his eyes. “But I want to help. You named me best man,” he argues in a slightly petulant tone of voice that clearly signals a tantrum coming on. He’s obviously feeling both rejected and underappreciated, neither of which was John’s intention.

“I know I did and you’re doing a great job. Better than I expected, really. I’m just saying, you don’t have to wait around. If you want to go on a case, just go on a case. I’m sure we’ll manage,” John tries to explain, immediately regretting that last bit as he sees Sherlock entering full pout mode. John has witnessed that numerous times before, when he makes a joke on Sherlock’s behalf at an inopportune moment or a stranger comments on Sherlock’s lack of social skills. It looks downright adorable, a grown man pouting like a five year old, and John used to be more amused than anything else. It’s taken him a long time to realise that Sherlock is actually hurt in these situations and only pouts to hide behind a pissed-off expression. If only Sherlock didn’t have such a godawful problem admitting that he does actually have feelings like a normal human being, maybe John needn’t have been friends with him for years before grasping what ought to be a quite central part of any friendship. 

A small voice chips in that that’s the pot calling the kettle black, but John tries to ignore that.

“Look, I didn’t mean…”

“I understand.” 

Sherlock cuts him off immediately, his face already turning from hurt and pouting to impassive. The warmth that was there a moment ago is gone too. Damn it. If only he wasn’t so good at this. Then John might be able to catch a break every once in a while and settle on just one interpretation, one understanding of who Sherlock is and how he actually feels. Whether or not he actually feels. That this is still a question in John’s mind from time to time… he hates himself sometimes.

Why they always have to do this… open up only to hurt each other and then immediately close off again… John really can’t tell and it’s been going on now for longer than he wants to admit. That age-old frustration builds up again and it’s more than John can take right now, with everything else in his life feeling just as confused and uncertain and _wrong_. It can’t feel wrong with Sherlock, it just can’t.

Maybe he should just say it. John has already allowed this to go on for too damn long.

“Sherlock… what’s happening with me and Mary…”

Sherlock looks up at him, impassivity once again exchanged for a questioning frown. He’s actually listening now.

“What’s happening with me and Mary, it doesn’t change… when you were gone… what you and I have, that’s…”

Shit. He can’t say it. He can’t find the words. Sherlock is still looking at him, all innocent confusion, and it’s just making it worse. How does he manage to flip on a dime like that, again and again? Why can’t John pause him, take a moment to actually figure out what he’s thinking? Why must it always be like this?

_Because it’s just never our moment, that’s why._

Because Sherlock will never change. He’ll dangle that warmth and affection, that long-awaited admission that _yes he cares_ , just slightly out of John’s reach and take it away whenever John reaches out to claim it. He’ll smile and laugh and charm until John feels just about ready to come right out and tell Sherlock _everything_ , but then he’ll use those exact words and that exact disarming smile on a witness only to ruthlessly drop it all the moment he gets what he wants. He’ll make John question whether he cries his heart out or rolls his eyes in disdain when the door closes. He’ll make John hate himself for questioning Sherlock’s feelings just because he can’t put them into words and then make John hate himself for investing so much in a relationship with a man who, by his own admission, is a high-functioning sociopath uninterested in human emotion.

And John isn’t one bit better. All these things, _important things_ , that he keeps meaning to say and yet never manages to get out. He spent two whole years regretting that he didn’t have the balls to speak his mind when he had the chance and convincing himself that there was no point in telling anyone about it because it would all be too late anyway. Now Sherlock is back. He gave John the one thing he spent two years wishing for, another chance to say what he really wants to say, and still John keeps postponing it. Aren’t people supposed to learn something from their mistakes?

Then there’s also Mary. Is any of this fair to her? 

Christ. If John isn’t just about the most ungrateful bastard that anyone could possible have the misfortune to meet. A lovely fiancé, soon to be wife, and a best friend who is willing to pause what seems to be his entire life just to make sure that the wedding will be a success. Really, not a lot of people have that. And yet John can barely even pretend to concentrate on that for all the confused thoughts and feelings churning around inside of him.

Sherlock is still looking at him, probably waiting for a continuation. John needs to say something. The silence between them is honestly getting uncomfortable. Not unlike when John asked Sherlock to be his best man. Talking about emotions really isn’t their strongest side, not for either of them.

_Just say something._

“Anyway, Mary thought it might be a good idea for us to go on a case.”

_Not that, you fucking idiot!_

An expression flickers across Sherlock’s face too fast for John to interpret it. “Oh. Well, I suppose we could do that. If you have no objections. I don’t expect…”

“No, no, it’s alright. Really, I…” _would really like to spend some time with you_ “… need to get out of the house for something else than work. That’s just what the doctor ordered, you know. And your inbox must be bursting by now.”

-

They end up in Brixton on a case that’s clearly not one for the website, but does provide Sherlock with a couple of excellent opportunities to show off that John is _almost_ glad to see him fail to miss. It’s not even that exciting, pretty straightforward case of false identity solved by Sherlock in a record three hours and forty-two minutes although he claims that he had the answer all figured out way before that on the cab ride back to Baker Street. Still, it very much is just what the doctor ordered, although the doctor’s recommendations in this case has nothing to do with the fresh air and everything to do with the company. Being just the two of them again, being out and about solving cases again, even the more mundane ones… it feels better than John would like to admit.

And somehow, amidst the rush and the fun and the comfort of familiarity, John postpones _the talk_ yet another day.


	5. Drowned Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness! This was a very difficult chapter to write and I'm still not 100% happy with it, but here goes. Yet another depressing chapter and it's only getting worse from here on out, so... yeah, sorry about this. As always, feel free to comment, give kudos or anything else! It greatly motivates me and I'd love to get more in touch with everyone about this fic. You can find me (until tumblr destroys itself with legislation anyway) as the-signs-of-two on tumblr!

_No, no, the second note is way too high. Can’t use that._

Sherlock makes a quick correction on the music sheet in front of him and starts over. It sounds alright as far as he can judge, though it’s still far from fully satisfactory. Is it even possible to dance to this? Despite copious amounts of research while composing this piece, he still isn’t quite sure how well it’s going to work in practice and this isn’t something he’s willing to compromise on. At least the music ought to be on point, even if there’s only so much a man can do to improve the dancing ability of one John Watson in the course of just one week.

There’s a cup of tea on the table next to the music sheet, untouched since the early morning and long since gone cold. Tea stains on the inside of the cup. John’s old cup. Why he didn’t see fit to bring it with him when he moved out is a mystery to Sherlock. It’s an army mug, awarded to John when he left the military. He seemed quite fond of it. Why Mrs. Hudson chose to use that mug when she made tea for Sherlock earlier is another mystery. Quite possibly, the other mugs are dirty. Sherlock hasn’t done the dishes in a while and it’s all piling up next to his microscope. Juggling for room amid take-away trays and soil samples from Brixton that he collected more than a month ago and hasn’t got around to cataloguing yet.

His eyes stay on the cup as he plays through his freshly composed piece once again and tries to decide whether or not the second stanza is too fast to be used in a traditional waltz. Mrs. Hudson’s vacuuming of 221A below, clearly audible through the floorboards, isn’t helping his concentration, but then neither is the incessant creaking that seems to have replaced John as his live-in companion lately. Indeed, it seems to only ever give him a break when John is around and then returns to reclaim his attention as soon as he’s left to his own devices. It’s more than a little disturbing. But the only solution seems to be a return to the basement of his mind palace and Sherlock is somewhat less than motivated to do that considering how well it went the last time around. Besides, there’s no time now. The wedding is in four days. Sherlock can’t afford to get side-tracked, auditory hallucinations be damned. Surely it won’t hurt to postpone the operation just a few more days until everything is nice and settled and John and Mary are off on their obligatory post-wedding sex holiday. Then Sherlock will have more than enough time on his hands to fix any problems that might arise.

Not that there’s much for him to do at the moment other than making the final wedding preparations, including perfecting this composition. John has no time for him, not now. It’s been more than a week since he’s stopped by to visit and then it was only to retrieve a couple of things that he ended up leaving behind after sleeping a serious hangover off at the police station post stag night. Sherlock can understand that. Now that his wedding is just a few days away, of course John can’t afford to spend time solving any cases. It’s a more than acceptable excuse and, for once, Sherlock has no intention to goad John into forgetting a pressing matter at hand in favour of a case. Quite the opposite. This time, it’s John’s pressing matters that must take precedence over Sherlock’s cases.

Sherlock raises the violin and plays through his composition one more time.

-

Even the best-laid plans can go awry. Despite thorough preparations through a period of at least half a year, Sherlock finds himself fundamentally unprepared when the big day finally arrives and he has to watch John make Mary Morstan into Mary Watson from the very best position in the front row of the church. It’s vaguely reminiscent of an unforgiving punch to the stomach, knocking the air out of your lungs on repeat for more than an hour.

How many times hasn’t he tried to imagine what this would feel like? How many times hasn’t he mentally rehearsed the entirety of a standard wedding reception to prepare himself for the ordeal? Sherlock took the pain he felt then as a good sign, a sign that he would already have experienced the worst of it by the time he entered the church so he wouldn’t have to sit here like he does now. The exposed nerve in a broken tooth, laid bare for all the world to see and utterly defenceless against whatever pain is coming his way.

Sherlock feels his fingers lock around the pew. He holds on so tightly that it hurts where the wood digs into the soft skin of his palm. His knuckles must be white with the exertion, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the altar to check. It’s all he can do to not stand up and flat out scream.

This is not the way it was supposed to be. It was supposed to feel final in regard to his emotional investment and anything but final in regard to the relationship between John and himself. Instead it feels like the opposite, as though their relationship is ending while Sherlock’s emotional investment in that relationship is spiralling ever higher and madly out of control. It was supposed to be difficult but bearable. But only one of those adjectives seems to fit now that he’s in it.

_Interesting thing, isn’t it? Emotion. The grit in the lens, the fly in the ointment. The elephant in the room that you desperately attempt to ignore no matter how absurd it is to try._

Well... better make that two elephants with the way the creaking in his head, already enough to cause a near constant headache, has increased to a persistent thrum on par with any migraine Sherlock has experienced before. When looking for parallels, withdrawal comes to mind.

Now that he’s thinking about it, a quick shot would be most welcome right about now. It doesn’t matter what. Cocaine, heroine, morphine, Sherlock isn’t picky. _Stop thinking about it. Focus._

By the time the service is finally, finally, over and done with, Sherlock’s head seems to be weighted down with lead. He rehearses his speech over and over to keep his thoughts from straying into forbidden territory as he leaves the church. Distracting himself to the point of, well, distraction. And inattention to the fact that _bride and groom please_ means two people and two people only, with no room for _groom’s slightly disorientated and emotionally compromised best man_. If only the clock would go faster. Sherlock feels himself unravelling at the seams before the party has even made the move from church to reception venue. This is a bit not good and it’s getting worse. He still has to greet every last guest, still has to sit through the feast, still has to make his speech, still has to play the waltz. He really does need a hit if people, by which he means John, expect him to keep on functioning, even just marginally.

Watching John greet his previous commander, or his ex or whatever John wants to call him… the way his face lights up in a smile and the way they salute each other, reminding Sherlock that there are parts of John’s life of which he is not a part and never will be… and then feeling Mary lean in beside him, her arm around his as she remarks with a grin that “neither of us were the first, you know” when it’s her Goddamn _wedding day_ … that’s the last straw. Neither of them might be the first, but one of them is bound to be the last. And that one is not Sherlock.

Sherlock needs backup. Urgently. And he knows just what kind of backup he is in need of. Someone to offer a few words of encouragement to help him lock away the waves of emotion currently eating away at him. Someone to remind him how weak it is to care. Mycroft might not be a very sympathetic listener, but he’s on Sherlock’s side in this more than anyone else could ever be.

“Yes, what? Sherlock?” Mycroft picks up almost immediately, sounding uncharacteristically breathless, and Sherlock spots an opportunity to open on a less serious note before getting to the heart of the matter.

“Why are you out of breath?”

“Filing.”

“Either I’ve caught you in a compromising position or you’ve been working out again. I favour the latter.”

But Mycroft isn’t manipulated as easily as everyone else. He doesn’t take the bait. 

“What do you want?” Always the big brother… Well then. No way around it.

“I need your answer, Mycroft, as a matter of urgency.”

“Answer?”

“Even at the eleventh hour it’s not too late, you know.”

“Oh, Lord…” Mycroft sighs exasperatedly through the phone.

“Cars can be ordered. Private jets commandeered.” Sherlock tries to keep his voice light. Serious admissions and open conversations are not their usual milieu. Emotional phone calls and honest requests not their strongest suit.

“Today. It’s today, isn’t it? No, Sherlock, I will not be coming to the _night do_ , as you so poetically put it.”

Sarcasm, on the other hand, is something they both excel at and Sherlock finds himself falling back into that role straight away. A coping mechanism in and of itself.

“What a shame. John and Mary will be extremely…”

“Delighted not to have me hanging around.”

Sherlock very pointedly pictures a slightly chubby eighth grader prying the fingers of a primary schooler off his cardigan after applying a plaster to his eyebrow in the school infirmary. He can almost hear himself pathetically begging Mycroft to stay and Mycroft’s reply of _I can patch you up, I can’t run your life for you. If you want them to stop bullying you, you’re the one who has to do something about it. Now off you go, you’re not actually allowed to be here._

“Oh, I don’t know. There should always be a spectre at the feast.”

“So, this is it then. The big day. I suppose I’ll be seeing a lot more of you from now on.” 

He registers his own emotional response and reflexively tries to cover it up with another tried and true stable of their relationship: bickering. 

“What do you mean?”

“Just like old times.”

“No, I don’t understand.”

It works sometimes. But feigning indifference isn’t always the smartest coping mechanism. Now Mycroft is sure to dig deeper, expose that raw nerve just a bit further. Why does he never learn? 

“Well, it’s the end of an era, isn’t it? John and Mary. Domestic bliss…” 

Mycroft knows exactly what he’s doing, ripping out stitch after stitch with unerring precision. Drags the last syllable out for a painfully long moment. There is nothing accidental about this. But then again, what did Sherlock expect? Expose yourself and this is what happens. With Mycroft, the price for a blunder like this is just swifter and more precise than with anyone else.

Maybe this phone call isn’t such a good idea after all. Sherlock’s reactions are even more astute than initially predicted. 

_Cover it up. Now._

“No, no, no, I prefer to think of it as the beginning of a new chapter.”

Not good enough. Even he can hear how forced his voice sounds. And if he can hear it, so can Mycroft. 

In fact, he seems to consider Sherlock’s performance to be entirely unworthy of a reply.

“What?”

“Nothing!” Christ, no one can sound insincere as Mycroft can sound insincere.

“I know that silence. What?”

“Well, I’d better let you get back to it. You have a big speech or something, don’t you?” _Please… stop_. He could at least pretend not to mock Sherlock outright. _Do it subtly if you just can’t help yourself.  
_

“ _What?_ ”

“Cake. Karaoke. _Mingling…_ ”

“Mycroft!”

And then it comes.

“This is what people do, Sherlock. They get married. I warned you. Don’t get involved.”

“Involved? I’m not involved!”

“No…”

“John asked me to be his best man, how could I say no?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m not involved!”

“I believe you, really I do!”

_Good._

This is what Sherlock needs to hear. An encouragement to not feel, to think rationally, to close off instead of being swept away. A reminder that caring is not an advantage and emotions make you weak. Mycroft’s tendency to use every opportunity to rub Sherlock’s emotions in his face is actually what he needs to hear sometimes. It adds much needed fuel to the parts of his brain supplying him with cold analyses and logical arguments. Spurs his less emotional side into action. So too does it work today.

John and Mary are getting married. It’s a marriage. It’s not the end of the world. And even if John should have much less time for him from now on, why should he care? He’s been alone before, he can be alone again. What exactly is John anyway, other than a little follow-along for Sherlock to impress during his deductions? Why should it even matter if he’s there or not? It’s not as though he’s much of a help when it comes to solving a case. He’s never been the most luminous of people. 

_That’s it. Keep going. Think happy thoughts, isn’t that the expression?_

Of course Mycroft doesn’t stop where Sherlock wants him to. That would be uncharacteristically generous of him.

“Have a lovely day and do give the happy couple my best.”

_Happy thoughts._

“I will…” 

There’s no denying the bitterness in his tone. Sherlock is about to end the call and switch off the phone when Mycroft speaks again. He naturally can’t allow Sherlock’s confirmation to be the parting line. Regardless of what John seems to think, it’s Sherlock’s informed opinion that Mycroft is the one most likely to outlive God trying to have the last word.

“Oh, by the way, Sherlock…” 

He raises the phone to his ear again, resigning himself to whatever snide remark Mycroft has chosen for his coup de grâce. But what he hears is not at all the comment he expects. 

“Do you remember… Redbeard?”

_Redbeard._

Sherlock doesn’t stop to dwell on whatever emotion surfaces in his chest at that reminder. He doesn’t allow himself to do so. He never has. Some things are just better locked away where they can’t do any harm. Redbeard is one such thing and Sherlock acts almost instinctively at the mention, closing off the emotional onslaught as much as he’s able. Minimising the damage. 

_Cancel examination of vulnerable emotional response. Move on to offensive emotional response directed at the source of interruption. No pain. Just anger._

Any conflicting feelings about contacting Mycroft for sympathy and advice evaporate like dew under the sun. It was undoubtedly a mistake. Hang Mycroft’s advice. His lack of sympathy and the unerring precision with which he twists the knife far outweighs whatever coping strategies he can offer. The still-active rational part of Sherlock’s brain can’t help but be impressed at the way his brother manages to both raise a strawman and then mercilessly shoot it down in two sentences flat. Sherlock has never quite managed that scale of manipulation. The emotional part of Sherlock’s brain, on the other hand, adds nothing but pain to the mix and wraps itself around his vocal chords unhelpfully.

_Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time._

The pause is barely audible, almost resembling a drawn out intake of breath. Then… “I’m not a child anymore, Mycroft.”

“No, of course you’re not. Enjoy not getting involved, Sherlock.” 

An annoying beeping sound as Mycroft ends the call. Once again, Sherlock can’t help but picture that 12 year old sending him back out to his bullies with _now off you go, you’re not actually allowed to be here_. His anger unfortunately evaporates as soon as he no longer feels his fragile emotional state being put on display, leaving him with an all too familiar loneliness. It seems to be the trademark of his existence the past many months.

_One little push… and off you pop._

Christ, he needs to get a hold of himself. He does have a big speech to make, as Mycroft so helpfully pointed out. It’s John’s big day. No matter what Sherlock might try to tell himself about his relationship with John to make this whole ordeal seem less unbearable, letting John down is out of the question. Yet here he is, mentally exhausted and emotionally drained less than halfway through. A bit of moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes because of nothing more than a stupid phone call. Arguing with himself. He can’t be hearing voices while making his speech, that much is for sure. Even if the voices are just his own.

Does it count as hearing voices if what you’re hearing is just yourself arguing? Sherlock has always argued with himself. Everyone does so from time to time and it’s a useful tool when one has to deduce a crime scene. It allows you to turn the evidence around in your head, examine it from all angles and exploit every opportunity. That’s supposed to be normal. 

This though… it doesn’t feel normal. There are times where Sherlock thinks he’s hearing someone else, where his mental voice sounds barely recognisable, puts on a foreign accent or a strange speaking pattern. He usually talks to himself in the second person, but there are times when he switches back and forth between the first and second person as though he’s actually having a conversation. There are times where the sounds become so real that he almost feels the need to physically cover his ears. As though that would make any difference.

His mind isn’t what it used to be. Before he met John, Sherlock’s mind was like an impenetrable fortress filled with useful information and very little else. A first rate archive behind several layers of protection. Whatever emotions, impulses and disturbing memories were there were locked away deep within, ready to be accessed at a moment’s notice should he wish to do so but effectively stored away and unable to impede his everyday life. But John, it seems, has been chipping away at those defences bit by bit through the years. Slowly exposing those pent-up emotions hidden inside and eating away at the very foundations of his mind palace. Yet now, with his defences eroded to the point of an imminent collapse, John seems to have abandoned him. His emotions laid bare, his defensive walls in ruin, his heart exposed… and now he’s like a card house waiting to fall with the next gush of wind. An iceberg about to roll over.

John wanted him to be more human. John _made_ him more human. But he didn’t stay to see the project through to the end. Now Sherlock is neither entirely opened nor entirely closed and all those _fucking_ emotions piling up have nowhere to go. This gradual loss of control over his mind palace seems to be the result. His increasingly obsessive inner monologue is pulling him apart, giving him headaches and depriving him of his sleep. 

One voice is urging him to take the easy way out and put an end to all this useless, weak, pathetic pain he’s experiencing. Urging him to let go of what John and Mrs. Hudson and mommy and daddy and society as a whole want him to be, tell him he must be, and instead embrace who he really is and who he really could become without these pesky emotions holding him back. Sherlock has heard that voice all his life with varying intensity. Reminding him what he is (weak, emotional, pathetic, stupid) and what he could be (strong, unemotional, sharp, intelligent). Reminding him how easy it would be to stop himself from feeling. All this pain and heartbreak and hurt and confusion, all taken care of with nothing more than the flick of a switch somewhere deep inside his mind palace, a switch carefully hidden away but nevertheless still accessible. The temptation is palpable as his emotions ratchet up notch by notch. It already started in Serbia. That small whisper in the back of his head that had been relatively quiet for years, ever since he met John. The call to not feel pain. The call to not feel at all. He was able to drown it out in the beginning, at least partially, by reminding himself what he then thought he would soon return to. John, Baker Street, safety, home. Now there’s nothing. No barriers, no defences, just his own stubborn will to hang on that Sherlock feels weakening by the minute. Then there's the other voice in his head. This one, sounding suspiciously like John nowadays, warning him that flicking that switch and permanently disabling his emotions is a desperate measure, not a decision to be taken lightly or in the heat of the moment. Warning him that it could have very serious consequences and that Sherlock has no way of telling what those consequences might be. Telling him that there’s nothing rational about wanting to flick that switch, that it’s emotions making him want to be emotionless and that emotions are not to be trusted with such important decisions. The conflicting voices, a reflection of conflicting impulses and desires… it’s making his head hurt. In truth it’s a balancing act with Sherlock and it always has been.

John is trying to catch his gaze now, let him know that they’re about to start and he’s expected at the table. _Deep breaths, Sherlock. For John. Just don’t think about it. That’s the key._

The meal passes seemingly in fast-forward as Sherlock struggles for some semblance of control and the time of his speech moves closer. He can barely eat, though he does try to put on a show for John’s sake. How everyone else manages to do this – relax and talk and have fun at these hideously drawn out social occasions – that has always been beyond Sherlock. But if it has always been difficult for him even under normal circumstances, now it’s downright impossible.

The speech itself is an exercise in self-inflicted torture. Speaking to a room full of people who are actually listening while also speaking to himself in at least three separate voices does not go well together and Sherlock absently wonders if his desire to self-ignite is as palpable to everyone else as it is to him. On the other hand, John is here, John is listening and Sherlock is finally given just a bit of that attention that he won’t admit to needing. Seeing John smile, even look visibly touched by some of what Sherlock is saying… that’s good. His inner monologue falls into the background for just a moment. John’s arm around him as they awkwardly hug in public is enough to ground him, even if it’s just a momentary relief.

It gets better from then on out. A sudden attempted murder to prevent, a locked room mystery to solve and an invisible man with an invisible knife to catch is just what the doctor ordered. It keeps Sherlock’s mind sufficiently distracted and allows him to push those dreaded feelings into the background for a while. That’s how he works. Logic and emotion. The two opposing ends of a spectrum that he’s constantly oscillating back and forth between and _dear God_ how he longs to remain on just one end. _Dear God_ how he longs to cling on to his logic and everything connected with that – his sharp mind, his cases, his whole identity as the genius without a heart – and just let go of his emotions and everything connected with that – his too-vulnerable ego, his depressions, his whole identity as the man who only ever pretends not to care because admitting that it hurts is too difficult. He could do it. Throw his emotions aside, become the calculating machine he so longs to be. A flick of a switch. That’s all he’d have to do.

Sherlock manages to stand his ground, albeit not without a few crises, until John and Mary have to dance the waltz. As soon as Sherlock picks up the bow and John picks up Mary, it becomes horrifyingly apparent that no amount of rehearsal on Sherlock’s part has been sufficient to prepare him for this moment either. With no more need for his logic mind, Sherlock’s emotions sneak back up on him and overwhelm him completely. Witnessing the actual marriage was bad enough. Seeing John guiding Mary along through the traditional first waltz as a married couple is a whole new level of torture rivalling even the worst moments of his time in Serbia. Sherlock can’t help the comparison, can’t help picturing the way John would hold _him_ a couple of weeks before during their half-hearted attempts to not break down laughing while Sherlock tried to teach John how to dance. He doesn’t feel like laughing now. Like with everything else today, he just isn’t ready when push comes to shove. From control to panic and back again. From hurt to pretended indifference and back again. From logic to emotion and back again. All of it blowing in the wind. All of it laid bare for all to see.

_Is that vibrato or is your hand shaking?_

_… It is shaking, damn it!_

By the time Sherlock finally gets to the closing stanzas, the creaking in his head has increased to a persistent rapping loud enough to partially block out his own playing and he prays to whatever deity might be that he’s hitting the right notes because he honestly can’t tell anymore.

_That’s the frailty of genius, Sherlock. It needs an audience. Sentiment, though, that’s something you can experience just fine on your own._

And perhaps he ought to. Why shy away? What’s the point? Sherlock has shied away from this all day without it making the smallest difference. It hasn’t stopped this wedding from happening and it hasn’t stopped Sherlock from experiencing this astute pain of loss. Why not let it all sweep over him? Why not prove to himself once and for all that _yes it hurts_ and _yes he’s weak_? Why try to hide it? Everyone can tell anyway and no one seems to care. 

The ear-splitting headache is making him reckless, hours and hours of silent suffering is making him desperate. As the tune draws to an end, Sherlock keeps his eyes on the newlywed couple, determined to witness the customary kiss in all its glory. It’s worse than he expects. John shifts his hand further down Mary’s back, carefully dipping her backwards, and they both giggle as they share the most clichéd kiss in the book. The happy ending at the closing of a romantic movie. 

_Don’t shy away. Feel it, Sherlock. Embrace it. It’s not the end of the world. It’s just another nail in the coffin. Your skull is about to crack open anyway, might as well experience the last moments to the full._

Disorientated and slightly numb, Sherlock performs his closing duties as best man. A short speech, a cue for the music to start and he’s finally off-duty. John and Mary are still looking at him as people start to move onto the dance floor and Sherlock makes his way towards them.

“Worked after all, didn’t it?”

“Hmm?” John leans in closer to hear him over the music. So Sherlock isn’t the only one having trouble with his hearing. That’s… good.

“The waltz. Turned out to be suitable for dancing after all. I was slightly worried it was going to prove too fast for your two left feet.”

John and Mary both chuckle at that and Mary pats her new husband affectionately on the chest. _Let it go. Just let it all go._

“What did you think of it? Was it too slow? Boring? Traditional?”

“Please.” John chuckles again until he realises that it was a legitimate inquiry. Then he shakes his head instead. “No, not at all. No, it was… it was beautiful. Perfect.” He looks up to meet Sherlock’s gaze and the two of them lock eyes. 

For just one moment, the only thing Sherlock can hear is a ringing silence as every voice and sound in his head falls quiet. His headache collapses in on itself as though the exploding star that has been his brain the past months has finally reached a breaking point and now transforms into a black hole, pulling all noise and fear and doubt with it.

Then that moment is over. Reality comes crashing down on him and with it returns the damn noise. John looks away, likely equally aware that they’ve just had another one of their electric moments of eye contact and now, as always, feeling awkward about it. 

There’s a slightly uncomfortable pause for a couple of seconds.

“Dance. Both of you, now, go dance. We can’t just stand here. People will wonder what we’re talking about.”

“Right.” There’s a very noticeable sigh of relief from John’s side as Sherlock offers him a way out of a potentially embarrassing situation. 

Mary isn’t about to let him have it though. She reaches out for Sherlock with her left hand, running it down his arm. “And what about you?” _Your guess is as good as mine_. Her voice does actually sound mildly sad, though, he has to give her that at least.

“Well, we can’t all three dance,” John deflects. “There _are_ limits.” 

Sherlock doesn’t take his rejection personally. It’s a reaction he has observed quite a number of times already and there’s no reason to drag John’s embarrassment out in the open in front of his new _wife_. Just give him a push in the direction he wants to go.

“Yes, there are.”

John clears his throat.

Mary smiles and turns fully towards him, apparently satisfied with that explanation. Well, it is rather obvious that an intimate dance is an activity for two people only.

“Come on, husband, let’s go.”

Something dark and disturbing twists around in Sherlock’s stomach. He can’t manage more than a weak smile and a nod as John and Mary move away in among the other guests. They sway. Sherlock assumes it’s in time with the music, but it’s difficult to tell. The headache is taking centre stage again now, pushing his registration of the music into the back of his mind.

The floor sways. The windows vibrate. The doors rattle. Or it might all be in his mind palace.

It _hurts_. It hurts as badly as any real migraine he’s ever had and he needs someone, _anyone_ , to distract him. Take his mind off this impossible creaking and just _stop, make it stop!_ He looks around, singling out the faces he knows from among the guests.

Mrs. Hudson is chatting with John’s uncle. Lestrade is having a drink with one of John and Mary’s colleagues. Molly is dancing with her new fiancé, the man whom Sherlock is about 80% certain is named Tom. Janine, Mary’s friend and bridesmaid that he has been forced to briefly make an acquaintance with today, lights up when she sees him looking and he returns her smile instinctively, taking a step towards her… as she points to the man next to her that she has managed to attract the attention of and sends Sherlock a thumbs up.

There’s no one. The realisation hits Sherlock with the force of a small van. Everyone that he cares about is here tonight. Everyone that he considers his friend is here tonight. All three people that he took the fall for are here tonight. Yet not one of them has time for him now. They’re all busy being around less complicated people. Safer bets.

_Sentiment._

It’s too much. This whole day, all this pain and grief and loss and heartbreak... it all collapses on top of him in that moment. One more stab of pain and then those creaking doors are blown wide open. 

Sherlock almost audibly gasps as the contents start to spill out. Like the puncturing of a ship’s hull causing water to start seeping in.

_Not good, not good, evacuate, abandon ship!_

Sherlock gathers his things almost in a trance and leaves. He’s heading straight for the one thing that can dull his emotions even in the direst of circumstances. To hell with the consequences.


	6. Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finally, FINALLY I am back with chapter six of Icebergs! And first and foremost, I do apologise. It has been more than two months since chapter five, some of the delay has been a trip to London, Christmas, New Year's, exams in January and starting school again in February, but some of it has also just been the chapter itself. It took me a really long time to write, it was very difficult to write and I'm still not 100% happy about it. And I'm not quite sure why exactly, but this is just one of those difficult transition chapters, moving the story from the opening chapters that stick quite closely to what we see in season three to the actual story itself.  
> The observant reader will have noticed that I have changed some events and dialogue from the show already. This is because, while I have been sticking pretty closely to the show so far, I haven't spent six chapters on stuff we've all already seen just because I wanted to see it again, but because I've used additional dialogue, additional scenes and a look into the characters' heads to set up events further on the story. As such, I've also felt compelled to drop some storylines from the show just for simplicity, such as Mary's pregnancy and, as you'll see in this chapter, the entire Magnussen story arc. I hope you'll like it!  
> So without further ago...

_His breath stutters. His heart pounds. John is staring straight down the barrel of his own gun as wielded by Sherlock against Moriarty. He ought to be afraid. He ought to be God damn terrified. He’s decked out in enough semtex to take down a minor building block and Sherlock looks horribly out of his depth here with no clever plan to fall back on. That, at the very least, should scare him. But it doesn’t. Every fact about his current situation, from the semtex to the gun to Moriarty grinning like a mad cat at the far end of the pool, all of that merely registers as background information. Because what John is actually focusing on is the shine in Sherlock’s eyes, the reflection of the pool water dancing over his skin and the way the adrenaline is surging through John’s body, spreading out into the very tips of his fingers. It’s the thrill and the danger and Sherlock and all of it and his heart feels just about ready to burst._

_Sherlock is beautiful like this, looking as though he’s experiencing all the stress and fear that John strangely isn’t, and Christ if that thought isn’t the amalgamation of all of John’s worst and most fucked up sides combining into one messed up spectacle._

_But then maybe John should have seen it coming. Maybe he should have known that Sherlock would end up tearing his whole world down and putting it back together again in a slightly different way. Bring out all his most honest feelings and desires. He should have seen it, from that very first day back when he’d just returned from Afghanistan with it’s chaos and dust and brutality and danger and everything seemed drab and dull and meaningless in comparison. John can see him now, standing there in the doorway to 221B and putting on his gloves. “Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?” His eyes veritably gleam. “Enough for a lifetime.” Most people would be put off by that. Most people would take it as a very clear indication to leave the whole matter be – ex-army doctor recently returned from a war zone in Afghanistan, clearly done fighting. Sherlock isn’t most people. One little smirk and one question – “Wanna see some more?” – and John’s whole world turns one hundred and eighty degrees. Oh, God, yes._

John jolts to an upright position in bed, still mostly asleep and completely clueless about his current location. The last remnants of his dream play before his inner eye, Sherlock’s keen face beaming at him as he mutters a quiet “The game is on” before dying away at the sound of a vicious knock at the front door. Mary stirs beside him.

Who comes a-knocking at six in the morning on a Saturday? Maybe it’s the dream still clinging on to him, but John can only really think of one person, and he clears the bed in record time, throwing on a housecoat on the way to the door and practically tearing the damn thing off its hinges in his haste.

“I know it’s early. Really, I’m sorry…”

For one terrible moment, the only reply John can think of is _not as sorry as I am, believe me._ He wasn’t really aware how fiercely he wanted it to be Sherlock or how quickly he had convinced himself that it would be en route from the bedroom to the front door. He and Mary’s next-door neighbour Kate, dressed in little more than a pyjamas and a cardigan and sobbing her heart out on their doorstep, is a rather poor replacement. John just stands there for a moment, watching her puffy eyes with not a hint of basic neighbourly decency. It takes Mary to get him moving again, get him to wipe the disappointment (mostly) off his face and invite her in. Though he opts for leaving Kate to Mary as quickly as possible and make coffee for all three of them rather than be a part of the heart-to-heart that she so obviously needs. There are limits and John knows when not to push his luck. He can’t get that damn dream off his mind.

-

One should be careful what one wishes for.

Two hours, one unauthorised drugs bust, one sprain, one very tense car ride and one urine sample later, John finds himself glaring down a not-nearly-sorry-enough consulting detective just tested positive for cocaine. He can’t tell if it’s his anger, his disappointment or his worry that’s foremost in his mind and, frankly, he isn’t sure he can bring himself to care right now. Sherlock has been relapsing in secret without as much as a phone call to any of the people who care about him. Himself, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft. All of whom would gladly have thrown whatever else they were doing to the wind at a moment’s notice in order to help him.

That Sherlock barely seems to understand what he’s so keyed up about only adds to John’s anger. He genuinely seems unable or unwilling to understand what the problem is, and no amount of glares or shouts from John’s side go the slightest way towards making him. That he’s likely still affected by the drugs in his system and not in full possession of the situation does nothing to halt John’s frustration with him.  
It’s not so much that Sherlock has relapsed. John is disappointed, naturally, but he’s witnessed some of these episodes before, albeit none as severe as this one looks to be. He’s seen Sherlock in mostly every state of sobriety or lack thereof. And he could never blame Sherlock for occasionally showing a touch of weakness behind that poised exterior. This is a part of who Sherlock is, even if it is John’s least favourite part by far.

What gets to him, what causes his heart to beat faster, the adrenaline to pump through his body and his vision to turn red is the way Sherlock seems utterly unconcerned about the danger he has subjected his own body to. John can’t help but picture the room where he found Sherlock, the rusting pipes, the damp mattresses, the scattered syringes. John can’t help but imagine him lying there for God knows how long, alone and high with no one there to keep an eye on him. Nothing about that decrepit house looked sanitary enough to be considered anywhere near safe. And yet Sherlock has wilfully subjected himself to that risk without even bothering to look for an alternative. Or, you know, just God damn telling people! That’s all it would have taken. By God, if Sherlock had shown the least bit of interest in seeing John again after the wedding, if Sherlock had given the slightest hint that he wasn’t quite okay… John would have been at his side within the hour. That Sherlock seems downright annoyed by the fact that his friends care too much about him to not just shrug and let him carry on doing whatever he wants… it’s the exact same hurt John feels now as he did that night in the restaurant some months back. When he looked into Sherlock’s eyes for the first time in two years and realised that he actually hadn’t considered how much his supposed death had hurt his friends. Had hurt John.

And the same burning questions.

_Why? Why don’t you take better care of yourself? Why don’t you ask for help? Why don’t you let me in? Why do you need to be alone?_

The same burning questions that John still has no idea how to ask, so he doesn’t.

Instead he focuses on all the other, safer, much more practical questions. How long had Sherlock been lying there when John found him? What has he taken, how much and how often? How did he get hold of it? Has he got anything more in his possession? Is there anything else John should know about now they’re at it? Those are the questions John chooses to ask. And Sherlock answers willingly, albeit with a slight reluctance. Still affected by the cocaine then.

Out of a moral obligation to inform Sherlock’s family, John calls Mycroft while Sherlock is cleaning himself in the bathroom at Bart’s. He’d rather not, to be honest. Sherlock is behaving himself quite well all things considered, answering questions and only occasionally showing his frustrations with his friends’ concern for his wellbeing. John isn’t fool enough to take that for granted. There’s a frantic intensity to his movements and speech, reminding John of a caged animal pacing behind bars and ready to attack at any moment. His nerves are obviously not up for a confrontation with his brother at the moment. Still, John doesn’t feel as though he has a choice. It’s not really his decision to make. He’s just a friend. Sherlock’s family has a right to know.

-

To no one’s great surprise, Sherlock’s complacent attitude melts away the moment the cab pulls up outside 221B and he realises who’s there. He isn’t even out of the cab yet before the complaining begins. Mycroft, too, is predictably less than helpful. Sitting on the stairs with his hands neatly folded on top of his umbrella as though they’re nothing more than a pair of errant schoolboys summoned to the headmaster’s office.

“Well then, Sherlock… Back on the sauce?” His voice isn’t exactly sympathetic, but then again, sympathy ranks very low in Mycroft’s available repertoire and John isn’t exactly in a position to judge, his own anger considered. Sherlock simply glares daggers at his brother and proceeds up the stairs, Mycroft sliding sideways to get out of his way. A smart move, actually. Given the opportunity, John wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to quite literally trample his brother underfoot. But then again, given his own mood, John wouldn't put it past _himsefl_ to quite literally trample on Mycroft at the moment.

Sherlock rants furiously all the way upstairs, his nerves obviously in tatters from the cocaine and his grip on his self-control flimsy at best. By the time John and Mycroft make it to the first floor, John's patience with him is already wearing thin, and it doesn't get any better when he enters the flat to find Sherlock curled up sideways in his chair, head on the armrest and eyes resolutely glued to the ground in what looks to be the opening of a massive temper tantrum.

Well. At least the living room looks the same as alway,s with no visible scatters of syringes or lighters on any surfaces.

In contrast to John, Mycroft appears to be all business. “So… first things first.” His gaze is more than a little condescending, looking down at Sherlock both literally and metaphorically from his vantage point right in the middle of the room. “Did you make a list?”

“Go away, please.”

“Sherlock.”

A moment’s hesitance and then… “John beat you to it, I’ve already told him.”

Mycroft turns towards him then and John is struck by how much this resembles a court of law. A court of law that he very much doesn't have the patience to deal with right now.

“Well, Doctor Watson? What has he taken?”

John looks down to Sherlock then, giving him a chance to indicate that he doesn't want Mycroft to know this, but Sherlock avoids his gaze. There’s an unreadable expression in his eyes. As though he’s somewhere else entirely. Trust Sherlock bloody Holmes to zone out of this, of all things! And with that, John's brief foray into plying his allegiance to Sherlock is over and he quickly summarises the conversation he and Sherlock had at Bart’s earlier. Which sounds so much worse, he realises, when it’s not spoken by Sherlock’s far too calm voice understating the severity of the dosages he’s subjected himself to.

For his part, Mycroft doesn’t look particularly impressed either. It’s with a deep sigh that he turns back towards his brother. “Where are your supplies? We will need to confiscate everything you have in your possession and it will all be over so much quicker and easier if you just tell us where we should be looking.”

Sherlock huffs in frustration, his eyes twitching rapidly. “There’s nothing _to_ confiscate.”

Mycroft scoffs derisively, mirroring John's sentiments. "Do you honestly think anyone in here is willing to believe in you? Doctor Watson might be gullible, that's true-" John makes a mental note to bring this up with Mycroft later, "but he's a doctor too. And I regret to inform you that there are decided limits to your credibility in this situation. You restricting your substance abuse to the occasional night out on the town when you have the entire flat to yourself isn’t really a believable scenario, wouldn't you agree?" He hesitates a moment, clearly picking out a point of attack. "Your bedroom door is shut, I see." Sherlock stirs at that, raising his head just the slightest millimeter from the armrest, and Mycroft pounces immediately. Like a vulture descending on the prey. "Why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?” He straightens up, crosses the living room in one, two, three steps, arrives at Sherlock's bedroom door, closes his hand around the handle and...

“Okay, stop! Just stop! Point made.” Sherlock hurls himself into a semi-upright position, as though he meant to get out of the chair and then realised he didn't have the strength halfway through.

“Jesus, Sherlock…” John pinches the bridge of his nose, clenches his teeth and tries _hard_ not to shout. Leave it to Mycroft, let him run through his dictatorial shit and then John can say what he really needs to say afterwards.

Sherlock slumps, the energy leaving him the moment Mycroft’s hand leaves the door handle. He doesn’t meet John’s gaze. He just looks at the floor with that God damn dreamy expression, twice removed from reality, and John really wants to shake him, shake some sense into him. Perhaps he was a bit hasty in his relief that the living room doesn’t have the general appearance of a drug den. It seems Sherlock has just been shooting up elsewhere.

Mycroft returns to the living room, looking pointedly down at his brother. He fondles the handle of his umbrella, one of his specific habits. It looks every bit the superior gesture, though John suspects that it’s actually a cleverly masked agitated mannerism. Not a whole lot of compassion to be found there. But then again, John is still 95% angry and 10% sympathetic himself, so he doesn't feel as though he has room to judge.

Sherlock groans lowly at the very back of his throat, a deep baritone. His head lolls around before it’s lifted to look at Mycroft, as though that movement in itself causes more effort than Sherlock is willing to spare on it. John is struck by the contrast in his eyes, how he looks to be somewhere else entirely while still being able to maintain an intense glare. His mouth is slow to open. His speech is slightly slurred. Maybe it’s not just cocaine that he’s been subjecting himself to.

“Close the door... on your way out.”

Very little response. John has never met anyone able to look so completely disinterested and yet so thoroughly unimpressed as Mycroft.

Sherlock steels his gaze. “Brother mine… get out.”

“And leave you here completely unsupervised? To continue your mission of self-destruction, I take it?”

Sherlock hesitates a moment, but no more than a moment. “I wouldn’t be unsupervised. Doctor Watson is here, isn’t he?” Another heartbeat and then Sherlock turns his gaze on John, clearly judging his anger. “Isn’t he?” he repeats, his voice softening back into a slur. John meets his gaze. Right now, Sherlock is very far from being the clever detective in the funny hat. He's slow. Every move, every word... is slow. There's something very distant in his gaze, as though he isn't really consciously here, and yet when John really takes the time to look at him, he just looks utterly lost. Sorrowful. Somehow, through the anger, John sees him and all he wants to say is _please be nice to Sherlock. He matters so much to me._

But he can’t say that. Not now, not like this. Not with Mycroft standing less than three feet away and his own temper threatening to boil over any moment. So all he does is nod. Once at Sherlock and once at Mycroft, who finally seems to accept the situation, but still takes a long moment to look between the two of them, then takes an unnecessarily drawn-out sigh and slowly, very slowly, makes his way down the stairs and out to the door.

John relaxes inwardly, breathing an inaudible sigh of relief. 

Sherlock relaxes visibly, breathing a very audible sigh of relief that Mycroft can't possibly miss.

The front door closes downstairs and it goes very quiet all of a sudden. As though they’ve both been waiting for this.

John is the first to break the silence. “So… you want to tell me why exactly you’ve decided to kill yourself?”

Sherlock scoffs, but his gaze remains on the floor. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I’ve decided nothing of the sort.”

John hears the unspoken words and, for once, he hears them as plain as day. “Keeping the option open then, are you?” Just saying it makes something deep and dark and hurtful clench inside of him. Losing Sherlock the first time had felt like dying. It’s not something John is willing to relive ever again.

“Well, one should always keep one’s options open.” Sherlock says it with a shrug and what looks to be a very weak attempt at a grin. Trying to brush him off. Trying to lighten the mood. Trying to make it all into one big joke as though they’re not talking about Sherlock’s life. And what feels like John’s, too. 

John can feel his jaw clenching tightly.

“No. Not with this.”

“You’re the one who always-“

“Shut up!”

John actually shouts. Sherlock jumps, quite visibly.

“Just shut up! And stay shut up! Because this is not funny! This is serious! Do you understand me? It's serious!”

Sherlock shrinks back in his chair, almost physically cowering away from John’s anger. Finally actually bloody listening to him, but John is too furious to feel gratified.

“I never said it was funny…” Sherlock tries. His voice sounds so small. Vulnerable. Right now, that's not enough to quench John's anger. “Yes, Sherlock, you did. In every way short of actual speech. Now let me just tell you, it’s not. And I will not stand here and pretend just so you can get away with this way cheaper than you should, like you always do!” His voice rise to a shout on the last words.

A short silence. Sherlock doesn’t try to defend himself again.

John fights hard to loosen his jaw.

“Why didn’t you call me?” His voice is strained with emotion, but at least he manages to keep himself from shouting again.

Sherlock hesitates a moment with his answer. He looks… conflicted, for lack of a better word. Then a very quiet mumble. 

“You were busy…”

"What?" John can't believe his ears for a moment, which might be what gives him pause in his otherwise rapidly mounting anger. Sherlock is looking down again now, hiding his face, but John thinks he sees a glimpse of regret there. Guilt. If he does, it reflects his own. Sherlock chose not to call him when he needed help to stay clean because he didn’t want to spoil John’s mood? Because he didn’t want to interrupt John’s honeymoon? John wants to be angry at this too. He wants to bring up he and Mary's conversations over the previous months. How she would constantly remind him to make sure that Sherlock knew the wedding wouldn't change anything. How she would encourage him to take Sherlock out on a case, even going so far as to downright force him to find Sherlock a case if nothing obviously presented itself. How she would repeat to him over and over again the importance of reassuring Sherlock that it was still the good old days. And John had tried, he really had. He’d thought that Sherlock had understood. John wants to be angry that he hasn't, angry that he once again seems to underestimate and undermine the strength of their friendship. 

But really John just thinks of Sherlock hesitating to call him out of some misplaced sense of obligation to not be bother when John should be happy with someone else and all John feels is a deep ache.

He has to force his voice out when he replies. “I wasn’t busy with anything more important than this.”

Sherlock scoffs slightly, though it comes across as sorrowful rather than condescending. “Important…”

“I mean it. Sherlock, if I had known…”

“But you didn’t.” Sherlock cuts him off, looking up from his chair and holding John’s gaze, his eyes suddenly sharp as steel. “You didn’t, and that was the way I intended it to be.”

“But why, Sherlock? What do you honestly think I care about the most? Hm? An afternoon with Mary or your health and safety?"

Sherlock actually looks... unsure. Unsure of the answer. To this most basic of questions that John had almost meant to be rhetorical. The stupid, _stupid_ git.

“I don’t need help," Sherlock finally replies, his voice wavering somewhere in the zone between honestly insecure and falsely self-assured. "I have it under control.”

_Christ!_ “No, this… this is not under control, Sherlock. I can tell you right now, this is not what ‘under control’ looks like and I haven’t even seen the bloody bedroom yet!” 

John takes a deep breath. Tries to steady his voice. “Listen, if you want to pretend that you can handle this on your own because you’re the great Sherlock Holmes who doesn’t need help from the intellectually less gifted, that’s fine by me. Pretend, for all I care. But I’m not walking out that door until I’m absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I won’t come back to find you lying on the floor. Do you understand me?!”

A long silence. Then Sherlock meets his gaze hesitantly, almost shyly. "One can do drugs without ending up on the floor. You do know that, don’t you, doctor?” And he smiles.

And John is completely disarmed. He can’t stay mad at Sherlock, not when he puts on a smile like that. Not when he lets John see that slightly insecure, fiercely hidden side of himself that John finds impossibly endearing in a decidedly bit-not-good way. Not when he sweeps all John's concerns under the imaginary rug in one fell swoop and changes the mood in a way that John can't possibly hope to undo with the way he feels himself reacting to it. So John just sighs, shakes his head and accepts that that snide remark is the closest thing to an actual acceptance of his help that he’s likely to get.

“You cock…”

“Yeah.”

-

They end up each in their own chair talking of nothing in particular for the remainder of the afternoon. Just like old times. John tries to bring up their previous conversation several times, looking for just some sort of confirmation from Sherlock. An admission that he acknowledges the severity of the problem and isn’t going to just let it continue. But Sherlock is clearly not interested in having this conversation. Whenever John strays too close, he immediately changes the subject, and when John tries to approach the issue more directly, he simply shrugs him off and tells him to stop fussing. Which causes John to get frustrated and Sherlock to get cheeky and then they’re back to square one.

Still, the atmosphere is a lot more pleasant than it has been for months. In a sense it’s the calm after the storm of this morning. They sit together, talking of anything and everything, just the two of them, just like they used to. It feels comfortable and safe and warm and John can feel the anger drain out of him by the minute, relaxing him more than anything has in God knows how long. Which brings up a lot of issues that he would rather not contemplate. Like why it doesn’t feel this way when he's with Mary. John tries to tell himself that it’s just a matter of settling down and getting intimate. He has, after all, known Sherlock several years longer than he’s known Mary. But really, it’s just something he tells himself because that’s what you’re supposed to tell yourself in that sort of situation and he knows it. He’s married to her, he lives with her, he’s been with her in every sense of the word. It’s difficult to get more intimate than that. And yet it’s still with Sherlock and Sherlock alone that he feels this deep sense of comfort, as thought everything that's troubling him is going to be alright and he hasn't just been on the edge of a full out angry explosion for the past several hours because his best friend has relapsed on drugs.

Which is in itself a troubling thought on so many levels, not least because it's a thought that John’s had far too often. He'd thought it might pass when he and Mary got married and everything settled down into a new normal. But it hasn’t, and John is frankly sick and tired of this constant doubt and guilt and uncertainty. It’s wearing him down. He can feel it.

Well, to hell with it. If only just for today.

Of course the moment that thought passes through his head is the exact moment his phone buzzes with a text from Mary. _Speak of the Devil and he doth appear_. And shit, John immediately regrets ever voicing that thought, even if it’s just in his own head.

Mary is asking whether she should wait with dinner. It’s with more than a little surprise that John checks the time and notices that it’s actually half past five already and it’s with more than a little guilt that he realises that he hasn’t actually taken the time to inform her that he plans for this to be an all-night vigil. He quickly types out a reply, explaining the situation and apologising for not letting her know sooner. His finger is hovering over the send button when Sherlock clears his throat, drawing John’s attention. He smiles a bit awkwardly and nods down at the phone in John’s hand.

“Thank you for the visit.”

“No, I’m not…”

“I’m alright, John.”

John frowns. “I thought I’d stay.”

“You don’t have to.”

John knows a dismissal when he hears one. But he doesn't like the sound of this particular dismissal. He clears his throat. “You’re not alright. Or, well, you might be now, but let’s not risk anything. Do you have any food in the fridge? I could make some pasta or-…”

Sherlock interrupts him, though it’s done with a smile. A smile that is both grateful and regretful and not the least bit cheeky or condescending. “I’m sure Mary is waiting at home with something far better than anything you could scrape together from the meagre offerings in my kitchen.” How exactly he knows who the text is from and what information it contains is beyond John, but then so are a lot of Sherlock’s deductions.

John hesitates. He thought he'd stay the night. He really doesn’t want to leave. Didn't he tell Sherlock earlier that he wouldn't walk out that door until he's absolutely certain Sherlock won't find his needles again the moment his back is turned? Is this a ploy to get rid of him? Sherlock looks okay for all intents and purposes, relaxed and mostly comfortable in his own skin. He hasn't given any indication that he's in need of a new fix all afternoon. There's nothing dishonest or frantic to trace in his eyes. It’s more of a feeling, really. A vague insecurity and a not-so-vague desire to stay. On the other hand, both Sherlock and Mary seem to be urging him to go home. Neither is directly shoving him out the door, that’s true, but Mary is clearly expecting him to come home tonight and Sherlock seems downright dismissive. Will Sherlock consider it an indication that John doesn't have any faith in him if he stays anyway? Maybe it would be better to leave the decision to Sherlock. To show him that John trusts him and fully believes he can do this.

"... Are you really sure you’re going to be alright? I can stay if you want, it’s not a problem.”

“I’m alright, John”, Sherlock repeats, but his tone is still soft and pliant. Almost meek.

It’s difficult to argue with your wife, your best friend and your own guilty consciousness at the same time. John sighs and nods.

“Fine then. But I’ll be back first thing in the morning. And you’ll call me immediately if there is a problem, do you understand?”

Sherlock nods, smiling politely and, frankly, a bit impersonally. Maybe he does have this thing under more control than John initially gave him credit for.

“Alright. First thing in the morning. You stay off the sweeties until then, do you hear me?”

Sherlock nods again and sends John on his way.

-

Sherlock’s smile lasts until the moment John closes the door behind him. Dying away as his body tenses. Sherlock waits. Thankfully, though, Mrs. Hudson has a creaking staircase in need of a loving hand (not unlike the tenant that lives at the end of it). Sherlock can hear John all the way down the seventeen steps and out to the front door. The short break as John reaches the landing in the middle. The particularly bad creak as he reaches the fourth step from the bottom. The squeak of the hinges as he opens the front door. Sherlock waits. And there it is, the distinctive slam. John has left. Now he’s locked in here alone.

For a moment, silence. Sherlock waits. Listens to his own heartbeat. One… two…

_Oh, Sherlock, look at you. You’re a very stupid little boy. Mommy and daddy are very cross. “The Great Sherlock Holmes”. What's left of you now? All that potential. All that genius. And down it goes in the drain with your dignity, your self-respect, your rationality... Maybe you should have worn the hat, at least it'd be satirically relevant. That's all there is to the great Sherlock Holmes, isn't there? Deceit? Or, well, perhaps not. You couldn’t fool John, you couldn’t fool Molly, you couldn’t fool Mrs. Hudson, you couldn’t even fool yourself. Look at you, Sherlock. What’s left?_

He closes his eyes. Opens his mouth. Screams soundlessly into empty air. _God, just make it stop, make it stop, **stop, stop!**_

_You know how to make it stop. One little prick and off you pop._


	7. If You Could Hear Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes... Let's just say that this sort-of monthly update is the schedule I'll be aiming for and probably failing by at least a couple of weeks every time. I really do apologise, but at least you get a longer chapter this time, so...
> 
> Also, I apologise in advance... Things are about to get grim.

Sherlock traces the thinnest clock hand around the dial in the bottom right corner of his laptop screen. The flat is completely silent, all noises come from outside, but Sherlock pretends that he can hear the clock ticking its way through the numbers. Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine… one more minute has passed. Is it just in his head that time is moving slowly or might there actually be a defect in his computer?

He honestly can’t tell why he chooses to stay clean anymore besides the fact that John wants him to. He honestly can’t tell if any other reason is required. _Because John wants him to_. Christ, what has he become? The Great Sherlock Holmes, the man who sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things. And how spectacularly pathetic he is, reading about himself on John’s blog because it feels as though the only thing able to save him right now, however momentarily, is a friendly voice.

He used to be so clever, didn’t he? Back then when he and John had just met each other and everything was new and exciting because Sherlock for the first time in his life had someone who didn’t make him feel as though he was alone in a crowd. Someone who would listen to his deductions, smile and say _brilliant, amazing, fantastic_ or any other outrageous synonym for _great_ he could come up with. Now the only thing Sherlock has to share with John is an occasional snide remark that takes much more energy to come up with than it should. No wonder John is moving on.

People who think that not seeing something coming is the worst thing you can experience are idiots. Idiots who never see anything coming and thus have nothing to compare with. The worst thing by far is to see it all coming and yet wilfully head straight for the abyss. Then it truly is a bitter feeling when you're on the way down.

Sherlock saw this coming. Right from the first day, he knew that John made him feel things. Right from the first day, he knew that John brought emotions to the surface that Sherlock had spent ages locking away. Like a mental illness making a comeback after years and years of dormancy. A pendulum swinging back. And he knew that it was going to end badly unless he put an end to it. Knew he would have to fight to avoid those floodgates bursting wide open and spilling his emotions out. Knew that John would push him towards that. And yet he has done nothing to stop it. Now it’s all happening exactly as he predicted it would and he has allowed it to come to this. He has let it go on for the sake of just another warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach when John smiles at him. He has ignored the warning signs. He has clung on to a fool’s hope that somehow it might all work out in the end, that somehow John might be a magician capable of making Sherlock’s logic and emotion compatible. All based on a far too brief period of 18 months when it seemed as though he and John could do anything together. When he could go on cases with John and make his deductions, not just despite John’s presence, but _because of_ John’s presence. When Sherlock could be right _and_ get that warm fuzzy feeling at John’s subsequent praise.

It’s not like that anymore. Now John and Sherlock go on a case and Sherlock has to fight to stay focused because everything inside of him is drowning in hurt and confusion and hopelessness.

Now he’s here. He should have put a stop to it a long time ago, but he hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Even now, he’s pathetically waiting for John to return and make it all seem just a tiny bit more bearable rather than actually trying to fix the problem for himself. An addict through and through.

Why shouldn’t he make it stop? John isn’t here anyway, so what’s the point? What’s the point in sitting here, feeling guilty and hurt and pitiful all on his own, when he could easily make it all go away?

_One little prick and off you pop._

Still… he _did_ promise John and John _will_ be disappointed when he shows up. _If_ he shows up. And either way, cocaine has never solved any of his problems. It’s just a pathetic escape, a temporary reprieve. The weak man’s way out. _Are you weak, Sherlock?_

No. He just needs to wait for John. John will make it all better. Even if Sherlock hates himself for needing that.

-

John doesn’t sleep well that night, if what he does can even be characterised as sleeping. He lies awake, reading his book, until Mary turns and complains that his light is still on when it’s nearly half past twelve. So John turns off the light. So Mary goes back to sleep. So John just lies there. Occasionally, he’s able to doze off, but it never lasts longer than twenty to thirty minutes before he’s awake again and looking at the time. Mostly, John just lies there. Not knowing what to do to pass the time and take his mind off Sherlock.

He keeps returning to the image of Sherlock lying in his armchair, pale and dejected. Almost sort of hollow in a deeply unsettling way. Completely disinterested. Until John had started shouting, anyway, which he also feels bad about. This is not Sherlock’s fault. An addiction is difficult to break and living alone just makes it all the harder. John knows this. If it had been anyone else, he would simply have shaken his head sadly and conceded that a relapse, bad though it may be, is not the end of the world. He really shouldn’t have shouted at Sherlock. He just hadn’t been able to help himself, which sadly seems to be a common occurrence these days. It’s not just Sherlock’s nerves that have been more than a little tattered as of late. John seems to snap at everyone at the moment, much to Mary’s annoyance. And much to his own annoyance, really. It seems pointless and ungrateful to be frustrated still. Everything ought to be so good now. Sherlock is back, and they’re good together. Mary is his wife, and they’re good together too. Sherlock even seems to like Mary and vice versa, which is more than John dared to hope for before he introduced them. The stress, hurt and guilt of the last two and a half years ought to be lifting. It just isn’t.

Deep down, John knows why. In a way, he’s always known it. He’s just never wanted to put a name on it, acknowledge it, turn it into a real thing. Make it something that can't just be ignored. On the other hand, it’s not as if he’s doing a very good job of ignoring it as it is, unspoken or not. And as the clock hand moves towards three-fifteen, John can’t help but start to contemplate whether perhaps it isn’t time to own it. Own it rather than continue in this perpetual state of uncertainty, always wanting to speak and yet always leaving everything half-unsaid, to Sherlock and to himself. It hurts just as badly as it is. Why continue to pull and prod at the arrow rather than commit to just yanking the damn thing out of his chest and be done with it?

It’s with that thought in mind that John takes a deep breath, painfully audible in the otherwise quiet bedroom, and brings up the thoughts he usually does not allow himself to have.

He brings up the image of Sherlock from his dream this morning, pictures him standing there in the doorway to 221B the day after they’d first met. The moment Sherlock had let him into his life and saved him in ways he didn’t even know he’d needed saving. After the excitement, danger and camaraderie of the army, everyday life had felt dull and meaningless by comparison. After the plain mundanity of life back in London, being with Sherlock had felt like a veritable explosion of colour and passion. Everything he did was exciting, everything he said outrageous. That extraordinary brain, that sharp wit, that untameable attitude. Those things, John has always allowed himself to register. To be attracted to.

But there’s something else too. There’s always been something else. And as John brings up one forbidden image of Sherlock hidden away in the deepest, most private recesses of his mind after the other – Sherlock lying prone on the couch with his dressing gown slipping off, Sherlock straightening his suit in the mirror before going out, Sherlock rustling his curls to make them appear more luxurious, Sherlock looking up from his microscope to meet John’s gaze with that intense expression of excitement - there’s little doubt in his mind what that something else is. Sherlock is beautiful. He always has been, with his slender built and rich curls, his sparkling eyes and perfect cupid’s bow. John has always seen it. And if John had been… overtly… interested in the same sex, then he would have acknowledged to himself a long fucking time ago that Sherlock overshadows everyone else in that department as well. That’s why John could never keep his girlfriends for long back then. Next to Sherlock, they just left him feeling utterly disinterested, physically and emotionally.

_Emotionally_. That's what it is. An emotional connection _and_ a physical attraction. If it had just been physical, John probably could have put it all down to PTSD and an identity crisis in the wake of his time in Afghanistan. Just a couple of odd erections and inappropriate fantasies about a flatmate every once in a while, that’s quite normal. John is a doctor, he knows about these things. But he also knows that this is not the case here. Not when it’s all taken together. There are too many clues so to speak, all pointing in the same direction. If Sherlock could hear him now, he would say that the conclusion is inescapable. An admiration for Sherlock’s intellect and a fondness for Sherlock’s personality, that can be friendly. Platonic. But a physical desire for Sherlock? A look that lingers too intensely on his lips or a hand that stays too long on his shoulder? Jealousy in the face of competition, regardless of his own relationship status? A certain disinterest towards anyone else when Sherlock is in the room? That’s not just a physical thing, a strange anomaly in his sexuality.

It’s Sherlock himself. All of him, all the time. In a way, it’s always been him. Even if John has never acted _on_ it, he has certainly always acted _in accordance_ with it. No one has ever been as important. Girlfriends were people John visited in between his life with Sherlock, whenever Sherlock was busy or in a bad mood. Sherlock’s work has always taken centre stage. John can’t count the number of times he’s had to sleep-walk through a day at the clinic after being out and about with Sherlock well into the early hours of the morning. Even now, even with Mary, even though John has fought his emotions with much more vigour than he has ever spent on acknowledging them… even now, he’s still the most happy and sad and angry and jealous and _living_ when he’s with Sherlock.

_Yes_. John feels the weight of that word even without speaking it aloud. Yes, he loves Sherlock. He loves him fiercely and always has. Just because he’s never acknowledged it aloud doesn’t mean he hasn’t known it. It’s been there somewhere in the back of his mind right from the first time they met. He can try to deny it, has tried to deny it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s there and it’s there to stay. It’s as simple as that.

He’s never acknowledged it because, well, he’s not like that. He’s never seen himself as someone who swings both ways. It's not that he’s ever had a problem with that sort of thing… in other people. But he’s not like that. There have been instances before, particularly during his army days, but it’s never been… it’s never been something he did. It’s never meant anything. Everybody have minor crushes on everybody in the army. The general agreement is that it’s a poor and temporary substitute for female company. It’s been just the same for him. He honestly barely remembers who he fantasised about in Afghanistan because, really, it didn’t matter.

It matters with Sherlock. It’s always mattered with Sherlock, John has always known that it does and it has always made him feel deeply uncomfortable. Confused. He feels excessively old for an identity crisis, but that’s what it’s felt like for the past five years whenever Sherlock has gotten just a bit too close. Thus has he passed the time, pulling away when Sherlock leans in and leaning in when Sherlock pulls away. Denying every accusation aimed at them (seemingly from all directions), yet always insisting on staying close and taking pride in being Sherlock’s main support. In a constant state of uncertainty about who he is and who he wants to be. And uncertainty concerning Sherlock too. Sherlock, who always seems to commit an act showing a clear lack of conscience and morals right when John has convinced himself that it’s all just a façade, and then reveal a bit of his heart and a genuine smile of affection right when John is abandoning all hope.

But what does it matter? All these uncertainties about himself and Sherlock that have always prevented him from acknowledging all this, much less share it with Sherlock… they’re as prominent as ever. Sherlock holds his gaze in that deeply intimate, intense way that he’s taken to doing recently and everything inside of John seems just about ready to burst. Then he goes and trashes himself on drugs, apparently completely unaware of the effect it would have on the person calling himself his best friend.

And John himself is no better, drinking himself confident enough to make a not-so-subtle move on Sherlock at the stag night prior to his marriage to Mary. Of all times. Jesus, he’s such a mess. The hurt, guilt and betrayal that John felt at Sherlock’s apparent suicide might be lifting, but the results of it are more apparent than ever. If Sherlock hadn’t jumped… Christ, just the thought of it makes John want to scream. If only Sherlock hadn’t jumped, hadn’t gone off alone and left John to think the worst for two whole Goddamn years. Then he never would have had to change everything to avoid the worst reminders of their life together. He never would have had to move out of Baker Street and find a new flat. He never would have had to find a new job and then he never would have met Mary at the new clinic. He never would have needed a companion so badly that he jumped at the opportunity when he perceived that she was interested in starting a relationship. And even then, if Sherlock had just come back two months before he did, it wouldn’t have seemed like such a big deal to break it off again with Mary. They hadn’t been that serious then and it wouldn’t have seemed like that much of a loss to end the relationship. As it was, by the time Sherlock did actually come back, John and Mary had just moved in together and were entering that we’re-both-getting-older-so-let’s-just-get-on-with-starting-a-family-and-all-that phase. With things as uncertain with Sherlock as they had been in the beginning and John seriously questioning if he could ever forgive Sherlock for what he’d done, it had seemed too risky and unnecessary to end a good relationship just to be able to dedicate himself more fully to a definitely-not-good relationship instead. Now it’s all too late and John ought to just resign himself to that. Some chances, once lost, never present themselves again. He’s with someone else now, someone who’s been everything she promised she would be and more. It’s relaxed, it’s comfortable and, more than anything, it’s safe. Someone who doesn’t make John feel as though his emotions are fighting a war inside his head and doesn’t require him to constantly question his own sexuality. That ought to be enough. It’s better than what most people can get.

He just can’t leave it at that and that’s the pain of it.

Back when he thought that he’d lost Sherlock for good, he might have been able to fool himself into thinking that all he wanted was to have that friendship back. But now Sherlock has given him his miracle. Now John does have him back, and with Mary by his side too. The two people who matter most to him in the entire world are right there by his side and, _damn it all_ , it just isn’t enough! It’s not the way he wants it to be, not deep down. Like a spoiled brat, he has it all and yet he just isn’t satisfied. Mary is every bit as caring and lovely as she was the day they met, but no matter how hard John tries to focus on that, tries to drive all the unwanted thoughts out of his head, it just doesn’t work. It’s the same old story all over again. Next to Sherlock, everyone else just seems… boring.

John almost physically cringes at that, feeling retched for acknowledging it even if it’s done in the privacy of his own head. They’ve been married a damn month, it’s a little too late for cold feet and a little too early for major regrets. And what about Mary? Mary has done nothing wrong, been everything she promised John she would be and more and yet here he is, lying beside her in _their_ bed in _their_ house, and all he wants to do is go back to before they met and undo everything that happened afterwards!

In truth, he doesn’t deserve either of them.

The best thing to do would probably be to come clean, but John just doesn’t dare. It would cleanse the air, yes, and move everything out of this horrendous state of uncertainty and unspoken feelings. But to tell Mary would be unbelievably cruel. What would he say anyway? That he loves her for who she is and is eternally grateful for what they have, but he only really got together with her in the first place because he badly needed someone after Sherlock’s supposed death? That now Sherlock is back and it’s possible for John to compare them, it’s getting increasingly obvious that Sherlock must and always will be the single most important person in John’s life?

And what about Sherlock? He probably wouldn’t understand. Even if he would, Sherlock has always made it clear that he doesn’t do things like that. Relationships. Emotions. John knows there are some exceptions, himself and Mrs. Hudson being the primary examples, but romantic entanglements have never been something that Sherlock has shown the slightest bit of interest in. On the contrary. The very first night they were out together at Angelo’s, John had inelegantly broached the subject, drunk as he was on excitement and overeager to become familiar with Sherlock, who had already then impressed him as just about the most exotic and fascinating creature imaginable. Sherlock had very pointedly turned him down and explained that he considered himself married to his work, a statement that Sherlock has not only continued to live by, but also reiterated on multiple occasions. Even if Sherlock would be able to understand John’s interest, he wouldn’t be interested in any form of reciprocation, and the relaxed ease with which they interact, the ease that John treasures more than anything else, would turn stiff and awkward.

There really is no point in sharing his thoughts, other than to rock an otherwise perfectly steady boat. But at least John isn’t going to stand by and watch as Sherlock sinks back down in substance abuse, not asking for any help out of some absurd notion that John would be too busy with his new wife to care. If he can do nothing else, say nothing else, be nothing else, then he can continue to be Sherlock’s friend the way he obviously needs. And, as the clock moves forward towards four in the morning, John vows to himself to make his intention to do just that abundantly clear to Sherlock as soon as possible. It’s with that decision made that John is finally, blissfully, able to catch just a couple of hours’ sleep.

-

Sherlock is shivering. His fingers shake when he holds them up in front of his eyes. Why does he shake? Is he cold? Is it cold in here? It feels cold, yet the thermostat seems to indicate otherwise. Why isn’t John here yet? How much longer is Sherlock expected to wait? If John had just indicated a specific time… Christ, his hands feel cold. But then, so too does his arms, his face, even his neck when he puts his hands against it. Maybe he isn’t actually cold after all. He can’t tell anymore. Pathetic.

His mind isn’t what it used to be. Maybe John is right. Maybe he has finally destroyed something important in his brain through his continued substance abuse. Or maybe it’s this infernal noise, tearing through layer after layer of his mind with a sound and sensation not unlike nails on chalkboard. Does it matter?

His pulse is hammering away, he can feel it thundering in his lips. Where is John? When is he going to come?

Sherlock sees himself as he must look from the outside: manic, shivering, his eyes wild, his movements frantic. Scared and desperate, pathetically begging an empty room to produce a companion. Does he believe that the walls might listen to him, bring John to him faster? He doesn’t know. Would it be more pathetic to actually believe that the walls could hear him or would it be worse to beg the walls knowing full well that it’s just words and thoughts emptied into the air? This, he also does not know. Sherlock honestly doesn’t know what he knows anymore, what there’s left for him to know.

It would be so easy to end it. So easy to make himself feel calm and in control, to stop that damn shaking, to stop his eyes from darting back and forth on a never-ending loop between two empty armchairs. To quieten the thoughts in his head. The voices.

John would be disappointed, yes, but does that really matter? John isn’t here right now. If he cared, he would be here. But he’s not. He’s with Mary. That’s the way it’s going to be from now on. Sherlock might as well get used to that and accept it. That time when John could make him feel the sun on both sides one minute only to douse him in ice water the next. That time when John could make him feel happier and sadder than he ever had before, could make him feel everything more intensely than he ever had before. That time when John causing emotions to swell inside of him had been a novel and intriguing adventure. Sherlock can never have that back. Now there’s only the occasional small ray of sunshine left amid buckets and buckets of ice water. He’s no longer on an emotional roller coaster ride, the cart has stopped right after a dip and he’s left with his heart in his throat and no hope of movement either backwards or forwards.

So why not grant himself a moment of relief?

In fact... why not rid himself of the pain? Pull it out at the root? Now that John is gone, once and for all, what’s the point of all these feelings? They’re only slowing him down. Preventing him from becoming everything he could be, from releasing his potential. Making him slow, stupid, pathetic. A weak shell of his former self, trapped behind all his pain, all his despair and frustration and jealousy. All his love. Love that he never wanted to feel, but now he does and it’s worse than he ever could have imagined. Going back to the way things were with John is an impossibility. Going back to the way things were before John is an option. And surely a better one than feeling this miserable all the time. He could do it. So easily, he could do it. His mind palace is already leaking, in tatters, infested with the seep-out from those hidden basement rooms. Why not seek it out and be done with it, once and for all? Just one little prick and he'll be able to find his way down to the deepest levels of his mind palace. Confront the voices that haunt him and rid himself of the emotions that plague him. Just one little prick and it can all be over, right here and right now.

It’s with that thought in mind that Sherlock finally gets up, his muscles sore from inertia, and finds a leftover needle in the bottom drawer beneath ten pairs of black socks. Then he goes to the kitchen to retrieve his hidden stash.

-

John can’t stop himself from drumming his fingers against his knee impatiently as the cab draws closer to Baker Street. It’s not even eight o’clock yet, but he still wishes he could have been here sooner. Sherlock can take care of himself and John trusts that he has done so, but there’s no reason to push his luck unnecessarily, and John had promised to be at 221B first thing in the morning.

Which he would have been had it not been for Mary. He tries not to think about it now and it’s probably all in his head anyway, but it had felt as though it took her at least twice as long to eat her yogurt as usual this morning. John hadn’t wanted to ask her to hurry or go before she’d finished, though. Had he done so, he knows all too well what she would have said. What she always says in such a situation. When she can come along or it’s conducive to her plans that John is off with Sherlock, there’s naught but smiles and reassurances and acceptance from her side. When John’s relationship with Sherlock threatens to become an inconvenience for her, however, she doesn’t usually hold back with her accusations. Accusations spoken in a cheerful tone, that’s true, but accusations none the less. After John's personal revelations of last night, listening to her jokes concerning the inappropriate attachment and intimacy between him and Sherlock hadn’t felt like something he was up for. Not while he’s still like this, feeling oddly exposed and strung out, his own confessions echoing back and forth in his head with alarming frequency and spurring on his already over-pronounced sense of guilt. Like a freshly exposed nerve constantly making its presence felt.

It’s not because he regrets confronting his own feelings. It’s not because he’s ashamed of what he’s found. It’s not because he’s planning on doing something about it. It isn’t going to make a difference, cause a change in his life or in his behaviour towards either Mary or Sherlock. As he established quite firmly last night, coming clean will do no one any good. But something still happened last night. Even if he chooses to ignore it, hide it away, never speak of it, never act on it, he can’t take his thoughts of last night back. They can’t be un-thought.

But they can and will be hidden away, for now. John has other things to think about at the moment. Placing these considerations on top of everything else happening to and with Sherlock right now would be a step too far, a burden too many.

And so John tries to clear his mind of all thoughts of intense looks, intimate touches and forbidden fantasies as he lets himself into 221 with the key he still possesses at Mrs. Hudson’s insistence and his own reluctance to give it up. He ascends the seventeen steps.

“Sherlock?”

John opens the door and looks around the familiar living room, expecting to find Sherlock either comfortably reclined in his chair with his violin or his laptop, wrapped only in a blanket or a dressing gown, or pacing the flat from wall to wall in a terrible state of agitation due to withdrawal. John is prepared for either sight. But there’s no sign of him. He might be in the loo, but John can’t detect any sound of movement or running water and the door isn’t closed. So he’s probably not out of bed yet and likely to be asleep still.

John takes a cautious step into the flat, intending to dispose of his jacket and make himself a cup of tea while he waits. He never makes it that far.

His eye is caught by a flash of pale skin to his lower right, just on the edge of his peripheral vision. His brain hardly has time to register what he’s looking at before he has already crossed the room and knelt by Sherlock’s side, lifting his body from the floor. A needle falls out of his dressing gown sleeve when John turns him over. His eyes are closed.

“Sherlock!”

John shakes him once, firmly. There’s absolutely no response. Then he shakes him again, firmer still. No response.

Everything inside of John seems to twist then, and he very briefly feels as though the floor has disappeared from underneath him. His stomach drops, his vocal chords tangle themselves up in knots, the blood rushing past his ears drown all other noise and his brain seems to screech to a halt as the adrenaline floods his system with more force than it has at any point since the last time he was knelt like this over Sherlock’s body, staring blindly at the blood on the pavement.

There’s no rush about the adrenaline release this time. Just sheer panic.

John has to let his breath out in a gasp before he can find his voice just long enough to raise it and shout, shout so it can be heard by every person in the general vicinity.

“Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, call an ambulance!”


	8. Pandora's Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at what the cat dragged in! An update, less than a month after the last one. From here on out, we're entering the angst-filled, less straightforward portion of this story. I really hope you like it!
> 
> Also, I don't say this enough, but I would like to give a big thank you to everyone reading, bookmarking, leaving kudos and commenting! It means so much to me!

It takes Sherlock a long time to reach the lowest levels of his mind palace, even though the way there is etched into his memory. He takes his time, carefully analysing every whisper and sensation as they occur to him. Cataloguing his own emotional responses. The steady dripping from the ceilings is almost deafening down here. Postponing this moment has only given the leak time to spread, to seep into every crack and crevice and spread its tendrils out from the basement to the upper levels. It’s been more than half a year since Serbia and every day passed has only made it worse. In the end, he can’t run from this. He’s known all along that any attempt to do so would ultimately prove pointless, but he hasn’t had the strength to face the problem head on before. Or perhaps he hasn’t been desperate enough until now. One explanation seems as likely as the other.

A light bulb flickers overhead. It’s vaguely reminiscent of one of John’s stupidly predictable horror movies, one of the ones he’s made Sherlock sit through on at least four separate occasions. As soon as that comparison enters his head, the light goes out entirely. Control is not something of which Sherlock currently has an abundance. It takes him a solid ten seconds to remember where he’s placed the switch. A few experimental flicks manages to fix the problem temporarily, and the hallway in front of him is once again semi-visible in the ugly, diffuse yellow of the bulb.

His pulse is hammering. Even in his mind palace, he vaguely senses that his body back on the couch at Baker Street is nigh on vibrating from the cocaine. To hell with it.

As he heads down towards the final door, Sherlock deliberately reaches out and lets his hands run across the other doors along the hallway, picking up bits and pieces of memories and information along the way. His textbook from elementary school. His lab set-up from university. His raincoat from a summer vacation in Scotland in 1983. Harmless little reminders, nothing more. But he knows what’s behind those doors, why he’s chosen to place them down here where he doesn’t have to look at them every day. Where he can forget about them entirely for months or years at a time.

He stops in front of the last door. Hesitates. This is it. This is the deepest, darkest corner of his mind palace, at least as far as he is aware. The demons beneath the road… this is where he traps them. Where he pushes them into a recess, hides them out of sight and locks the door in a vain hope that he might forget about them. This is a room he’s fought with all his life, a periodically returning sickness at the very centre of his being. There have been periods of relative peace and quiet, periods where Sherlock has been able to largely forget about this door and what’s behind it and convince himself that it’s all under control. The longest of these periods, the most lasting time of peace in Sherlock’s life, has been the time spent with John.

But John isn’t here to save him now. Not this time. You can try to run from your demons. It might even work for a while. But they will catch up to you sooner or later, and there are no places to hide. The demons chasing him are everything and nothing. Memories, scraps of information, people in his life, even bits and pieces of his own self.

Some of them are his dreaded emotions. He’s fought with those all his life. Yet the battle remains a torturous stalemate as his emotions continue to wash over him in tides, falling and rising yet never completely abandoning or overtaking him. There’s no winning or losing, just the monotonous push-pull inside of him as Sherlock periodically switches between overcoming and succumbing to his own feelings. Fear… hope… jealousy… pain… heartbreak… loss… love. It’s a slow torture, one that has been going for the majority of his life.

Other demons are his responses to those feelings. His hatred of his own emotional weakness and his fear of succumbing to it. His dread that his feelings are gnawing away at his intelligence, obscuring his logic and destroying his mental faculties. His despair at the knowledge that Mycroft was always right, that emotions are a weakness and that Sherlock will forever and always remain weak and stupid as long as he’s allowing himself to feel... 

That last one, perhaps more than anything, is what haunts him. His desire to get rid of his own emotions and become what everyone has always thought him to be: the brain without a heart. That demon, more than anything else, is what he keeps incarcerated down here. Because somehow, almost instinctively, Sherlock has always known that it would be dangerous. Uncontrollable. A terrifying force let loose, a storm laying waste to all in its path. That’s how Sherlock has always thought of it. As a naturally devastating force, impossible to escape and only temporarily kept in check. Mycroft used to tell him stories when they were children, and Sherlock has identified this demon with a particular recurring character ever since. The East Wind, seeking out the unworthy and plucking them from the earth. And Sherlock has always imagined that, just as in Mycroft’s stories, the unworthy being waiting to be swept away is himself.

Sherlock has fought against this side of himself his entire life, more out of a morbid, instinctive fear than any concrete knowledge of what it might unleash. Now he’s tired. It feels pointless to fight against what would undoubtedly be a relief at this point. A release from the pain of having too many feelings and nowhere to go with them.

So this time, he’s not here to hide it away. He’s not here to fix the leak, to sweep up what has seeped out and push it back behind the door where it came from. This time, he’s here to seek it out. This time, he’s here to open the door so wide that it can no longer creak. To hell with the consequences. What has he got to lose that he isn’t already losing anyway? Surely anything is better than being stuck in this insufferable deadlock for another minute, trapped between the presence of his emotions and the absence of any resolution to them.

A resolution does indeed seem impossible now. There were chances and moments, but they’ve all passed and Sherlock failed to reach out his hand for them while they were there. Thus it is the presence of his emotions that he must attempt to alter. And this is the only way he knows how to do it. Indeed the idea has been on his mind for months now, slowly seeping out of its confines and along the lower levels of his mind palace, dripping and creaking and impossible to ignore. Like an earworm that you just can’t get out of your head. The most aggressive pull of the most addictive drug that Sherlock has ever experienced. A drug he’s been addicted to for most of his life and the hardest addiction to break of all, regardless of the fact that it has lain dormant ever since he met John. That’s all over now.

He has to struggle with himself to reach out and put his hand on the door handle. It’s cold, untouched for years. Still Sherlock knows what is behind it. He may have been able to force himself to forget temporarily, but it has always been here. Waiting deep down below the old beech tree.

Sherlock presses the handle down and opens the door.

-

He awakens with a gasp. Stares straight up into the familiar ceiling of his living room. Sherlock is back on the sofa at 221B, his dressing gown splayed to either side and his hands gathered in front of his lips. Just as he left himself.

_He left the door open_. It’s the first eligible thought that passes through his mind, a brief and instinctive moment of utter panic before Sherlock manages to calm himself. He did not leave the door open. He deliberately opened it wide after carefully thinking the possible consequences through. Now he’s back, out, and nothing seems to have changed. The world hasn’t ended, everything is back to normal.

With one glaring difference. It’s quiet.

The change is so profound and so sudden that it takes Sherlock a moment to fully register it. No dripping. No creaking. No voices. Only himself and his own thoughts. It’s such a relief that Sherlock momentarily feels himself getting dangerously close to a sob. It’s as though a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders, a month-long migraine disintegrated. He is alone, alone in his own head for the first time in at least half a year.

As he looks around the flat, it becomes apparent that he is also alone in another way. John still isn’t here. In a way, it disappoints him that John is taking his time. He said he would hurry, didn’t he? The sun is already visible as a thin line between the curtains. Why isn’t he here already? On the other hand, when John _will_ eventually make his appearance, he will be far from pleased. He expressly told Sherlock to stay off the drugs and call in case of an emergency. Judging by his reaction to Sherlock’s first dose yesterday, the chances of John not going off on another angry rant are looking rather slim. Sherlock will have to think of something to say, an explanation or an apology. Preferably both.

It’s so quiet. Sherlock dimly registers the sounds of traffic and city life intruding upon his silent bubble from the outside. But it all sounds muffled and vague, as though he’s underwater. Perhaps it would be a cause of alarm if he wasn’t so relieved to finally be able to hear himself think again.

And the thoughts he has. It’s been so long since he’s been able to think clearly, to observe with precision and deduce with certainty. There isn’t much for him to deduce on in the familiar setting of his own flat, certainly nothing that will allow him to satisfy his own expectations. What he does see, however, is very encouraging. Flat newly vacuumed on a Sunday morning even though Mrs. Hudson only ever vacuums on Mondays can only mean that she has a visitor she is desperate to impress, could only really be Mr. Chinnery, the elderly gentleman from no. 215, who plays the organ in the church on Sundays, so he must be stopping by before that, which would be before 9:00 AM, it’s now 7:30, so he must be here already, which explains the shameful lack of morning tea from Mrs. Hudson’s side. Child’s play and unnecessary information, but _dear Lord_ how relieving it is to feel just a tiny bit like himself again. To feel in control after months and months of struggling to balance all the pieces, much less manoeuvre them around the board. At long last, his head feels whole again.

-

As time passes and John still refuses to appear, Sherlock can feel his impatience grow. After how angry John had seemed to be yesterday and his promise to be back first thing in the morning, it’s a tiny bit rude of him to postpone his return like this, isn’t it? It must be at least noon by now. Mrs. Hudson hasn’t stopped by yet either. And that despite the fact that Mr. Chinnery must surely have left by now to play what Sherlock is genuinely unable to refer to as music, at least not without such a hefty dose of sarcasm that it never fails to appal John and Mrs. Hudson alike. As though it’s his fault he was born without the appropriate level of amusia to endure Mr. Chinnery’s so-called playing.

His inner monologue turns increasingly petulant as yet more time goes by. Which is not quite as annoying as it’s relieving, if only because it’s been quite a while since the last time he was able to successfully distinguish his own voice and thoughts from everything else happening in his mind. Still, he should probably send a text to John and ask him when he’s planning to show up. Just for good measure. Sherlock reaches a hand down to the floor, blindly searching for the shape of his phone and eventually withdrawing in triumph.

But that can’t be right. His phone shows 5:44 AM, which Sherlock knows for a fact is impossible. He took his dose and entered his mind palace around that time. It’s been several hours since, he isn’t even high anymore. For Christ’s sake, he can see the light intruding into the living room from between the curtains. It must be noon, it simply must be. Maybe even later, judging by the angle at which the light is entering the flat.

There is no signal on his phone either, which is odd to say the least. Since when has it been difficult to get a signal right in the middle of London? Sherlock briefly searches for one, but nothing comes up.

Well then. His phone obviously isn’t working, which is more than a bit annoying considering the cost he’s invested in it.

Mrs. Hudson’s phone it is then. That will also give him a chance to criticise her conspicuous absence.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

There’s no reply. Sherlock waits a little, listening keenly for any sound of movement on the stairs. When it becomes apparent that none is forthcoming, he tries again.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

Nothing. There’s no reply, no movement on the stairs, no sounds at all apart from the muffled roar of cars passing by outside. Has she gone out? Shopping for groceries maybe? It’s about that time of day. Yet Sherlock has been lying here for the better part of four hours, and he’s positive that he’s not heard the front door at any point during all that time.

This is seriously annoying. With Mrs. Hudson apparently out of hearing range and Sherlock’s phone acting up, he will have to get up and go downstairs to either use the landline or find Mrs. Hudson and borrow her phone if he wants to get in touch with John. Sherlock would rather not have to get up already. He’s just enjoying the peace and quiet, the calm after the storm. For the past six months, being alone has been a constant bombardment of voices and sounds and feelings, splitting his head apart from the inside out. Now it’s finally all gone quiet, and then he isn’t even allowed to enjoy it? When he eventually does get in contact with John, he will have to complain about that too.

Reluctantly, Sherlock unwraps himself and gets up from the sofa, crossing over to the door. The carpet is soft and accommodating beneath his bare soles, almost tickling him a little. He pushes the handle down… and nothing happens. The door doesn’t budge. It doesn’t even rattle when he shakes it. It’s not locked, he can tell it isn’t when he inspects the locking mechanism. It just doesn’t open. It doesn’t move. Not an inch.

Sherlock suddenly feels as though he’s been dipped in ice water. His phone is showing him it’s still early morning when it must be noon. Mrs. Hudson hasn’t heard him shouting even though she must be here. The door is locked even though it isn’t. Reality is telling him one thing and yet he knows, _he knows_ , that it can’t be right. Sherlock can feel something clicking into place in his mind, a deduction he desperately doesn’t want to make. He rushes to the window, ripping the curtains apart, and there is old familiar Baker Street, everything in its place, people and cars passing by as always. And yet. The window doesn’t open either, no matter how much force he puts into pushing it. He bangs his hands against it, frantically hammering his fists into the glass while shouting at the top of lungs, and no one seems to hear a thing. People just keep on walking.

As though he doesn’t exist.

Or as though they don’t.

As though everything around him is just window-dressing, a reality pulled down in front of his eyes, his ears, his nose, his tongue, his skin. And here he is, right in the middle of it, and the door is locked and the windows won’t open and no one will hear him shouting. He can’t get out.

And he’s finally utterly alone.

-

The ten minutes or so from Mrs. Hudson calls 999 to the ambulance arrives feel like the longest ten minutes of John’s life. It’s worse than at Bart’s. As much as Sherlock throwing himself from the roof had made John’s world turn upside down, as much as his body hitting the ground had echoed in John’s ears for hours afterwards, as much as his blood slowly filling up the cracks between the tiles had provided fuel for John’s nightmares for years to come… as soon as Sherlock hit the pavement, it had been obvious that nothing more could be done. That it was all too late. And as horrible as that realisation had been, at least it’s better than this. Better than sitting here with Sherlock in his arms, unable to help him in any way no matter how desperately he might need it. Better than knowing that something is fundamentally, horrendously wrong with him and that every second might be vital and _can’t that Goddamn stupid ambulance just bloody be here already?!_

John is a doctor, and an army doctor at that. He’s used to dealing with medical situations in high pressure environments. The second he reaches Sherlock’s side and lifts him from the floor, John instinctively checks for restrictions to his airways (of which there appear to be none), makes sure that he is breathing (which he is, thank God, though it’s shallow and hectic) and takes his pulse (absolutely hammering). He does it so quickly and so methodically that he barely has time to register it, relying as he is on an immediate, subconscious activation of his medical training. But once he has checked Sherlock’s vital statistics and had Mrs. Hudson call the emergency services, there’s heartbreakingly little that John can do. His expertise lies in the battlefield. He’s used to administer combat casualty care for Christ’s sake, not treat what appears to be a life-threatening drug overdose on a living room floor!

There is no doubt that Sherlock is in desperate need of help _right now_. His skin is practically burning, his heartrate is dangerously elevated and he’s showing no response to the various stimuli that John is providing. Although not an expert on the subject, John knows enough about drug overdosing to know that every second counts. The signs that Sherlock’s body is currently racing straight towards a heart attack are so obvious that John doesn’t even need his medical background to make a deeply disconcerting prognosis. Yet there’s absolutely nothing he can do to help except sit here and _bloody wait_ for the _bloody ambulance_ and John has _no bloody clue what to do with himself!_

By the time the ambulance finally arrives, John feels as though he’s already gone half mad with worry and frustration and the looks on the paramedics’ faces do nothing to appease his fears. Both he and Mrs. Hudson end up coming along in the ambulance. John really feels as though he ought to say something to her, she must be just as shocked and horrified as he is, but nothing comes to mind and he’s honestly too wrung out to open his mouth, so he doesn’t. Mrs. Hudson seems to feel the same and so they sit squeezed together in a corner of the ambulance, both pairs of eyes fixed on Sherlock’s pale face as the paramedics do their best to ascertain his condition and stabilise him, neither of them uttering a word all the way from Baker Street to Bart’s.

Sherlock is taken straight from the ambulance into the A&E upon arrival. Which means that John has to let him go. That moment is definitely the hardest. Afterwards he just sinks down on a chair in the hallway outside the emergency room, staring straight ahead unseeingly. Like a puppet with its strings cut. Mrs. Hudson sits beside him, but neither of them speaks. At some point, she puts her hand on top of John’s and gives his hand a squeeze, but he barely notices and he can’t find the energy to respond. He knows she won’t blame him. Mrs. Hudson is far smarter than most people give her credit for, and she understands exactly what John needs – silence and a bit of comfort – without being told. It can’t be easy for her either. Sherlock is very much like a surrogate son to her, which is to say that she has just witnessed her surrogate son being dragged into the back of an ambulance, pale like a corpse and with a heartrate of 130.

Even then, she’s here for John. Even though she is, John can’t bring himself to be there for her. He’s barely able to keep himself from falling apart. Keeping someone else together, even if it’s Mrs. Hudson… that’s a bridge too far at the moment. It’s as though he’s back on the pavement outside Bart’s, blindly leaning against whatever stranger is offering him their support. He isn’t capable of offering any support in return. Everything feels just as chaotic, just as surreal, just as horrendously _wrong_ as it had on that day. That old despair, that all-consuming emptiness that John hasn’t felt in quite a while… it rises up again in front of him now, like a wave waiting to crash into him and pull him under, knock the air out of his lungs and keep him from breathing. He can already feel it, clammy hands wrapping themselves around his throat and turning every breath into a struggle.

John isn’t angry. It’s just about the only feeling he isn’t currently experiencing, which is odd to say the least when he considers how powerfully his anger and frustration had overwhelmed him yesterday. Now he isn’t angry, apart from the anger he feels at himself. He’s angry at himself for having left when he should have stayed, for missing the signs that Sherlock was not as okay as he let on, for letting himself be talked into leaving Sherlock’s side just to spend another ordinary, meaningless evening with Mary. But even that anger, as enormous and all-consuming as it might turn out to be at the end of the day, is simply too taxing for John to bother with right now. Nor is he angry at Sherlock. Maybe it will come later, just as it did after Bart’s. Maybe the anger at Sherlock for toying with his life in so nonchalant a fashion, for not asking for help when he needed it, will come sneaking up on John in a few hours’ time and choke him. For now, he feels no anger. Just a burning desire for Sherlock to be alright, for him to pull through and open his eyes and look up at John and smile and assure John that he’s absolutely fine even when he quite clearly isn’t so John can call him a git and they can laugh and John can feel confident that it’s all going to be alright.

John isn't a religious man, but he has made exceptions once or twice before in his life and this is one of those moments where John feels as though an exception is warranted. _Please God, let him live._


	9. By the Pricking of My Thumbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear... So. Here we are with chapter nine. And things are getting grimmer.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading and following, for leaving kudos and for writing comments! I treasure each and every one.

Sherlock is pale. His skin seems whiter than usual, thinner somehow, stretched out over his already too fragile frame. Bone china: untarnished, delicate, breakable. Breakable more than anything. It appears translucent in places, almost purplish in others. Sherlock looks exactly like what he is: a man who almost died of a drug overdose less than an hour ago, yet somehow, miraculously, pulled through to live another day. His steadily rising and falling chest is evidence of that, evidence that John’s eyes feel glued to. It’s almost as though it's his own chest he's looking at. He only breathes himself once he’s made sure that Sherlock is still doing the same.

By the time two doctors emerged from the A&E to deliver much awaited yet gut-wrenchingly dreaded news of Sherlock’s condition, John could have sworn that no less than an eternity had passed. And that despite the clock seeming to indicate that it had, in fact, been closer to half an hour. That was fifteen minutes ago.

Perhaps whatever god is there had heard John’s prayers. _Mr. Holmes is alive, he’s likely to pull through. The worst ought to be over, his condition has been stabilised and the risk of cardiac arrest is significantly reduced. You can go see him now._ That was the first thing they’d said, the doctors.

Perhaps it should give him pause. It’s now the second time John has prayed for a miracle to any god willing to listen and had the desired result. His own life in the first instance, Sherlock’s life in the second. And that in spite of John’s severe lack of piety in everyday life. Doesn’t that make him some sort of a cheat, accepting gifts in dire situations without coming to any revelations or amending his ways?

On the other hand, perhaps God _is_ getting the last laugh in His own cruel way. Because Sherlock won’t wake up. He bloody won’t wake up! According to the doctors, there’s no physical impediment to explain his prolonged lack of consciousness. He’s breathing normally, steadily and all by himself. The machines attached to him are nothing but monitors. He just doesn’t come to. Which John is enough of a doctor to know is a merciful term for a coma. Sherlock’s doctors can use as reassuring a tone as they want, it certainly did little to reassure either John or Mrs. Hudson. They’re doing everything they can for him and they’re going to exclude every other possibility before arriving at any conclusions. But the facts are the facts: a coma caused by Sherlock’s overdose is the most plausible explanation.

Which is why John doesn’t feel particularly charitable towards the higher powers at the moment and why he isn’t exactly in a repentant mood about it either. If Sherlock was alive and well, no _but’s_ or _however’s_ , then maybe John would have considered thanking whatever divine intervention he may or may not have summoned. There’s just no such things as perfect miracles. That’s not the way the world works. John ought to know that by now, indeed he thinks he knows that by now, yet somehow it seems as though that harsh truth must be hammered home over and over again, by divine decree or not. John’s initial relief that Sherlock is alive is still there, but it seems more distant now. Though the immediate, panicked fear of losing Sherlock right then and there on the living room floor in Baker Street has been somewhat abated, thanks be again to that aforementioned deity, it has been replaced with a worry that almost seems even more vicious. Blame be on that same deity if they even exist.

_Shit_. John can’t find the words to curse or rage or even despair fluently. That leaves him with _shit_ and _fuck_ and _Christ_ and other monosyllabic and slightly uncivilised swearwords. It helps to say them aloud in his head, John finds. It makes everything seem a little bit more real, reminds him that there’s still a completely normal, boring world outside where friends are out having beers in pubs. It’s funny how much John has willed himself to forget his coping mechanisms after the Fall – some of them far less acceptable than uncivilised swearwords – yet how quickly his mind and body seem to return to them now, completely on instinct.

There's nothing for him to do now, nothing but sit, look at Sherlock, pray or curse at the higher powers depending on what he feels is the least unhelpful. John doesn’t want to think, wishes he could turn his brain off and just sit here, as mute and stupid as Sherlock has so often accused him of being, but he can’t do that. His brain refuses to cooperate. And refuses to think of anything but the gaping hole in his chest and what’s causing it.

Knowing, or thinking that he knew, that Sherlock was dead… that certainty that he was gone for all time… that had been worse than this. Sherlock is alive. That simple fact matters more than anything else in the world. Focusing on the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest sends a soothing relief through John, unhampered by everything else. Sherlock is alive. After the Fall, John should actually be surprised by his own worry. Surprised by his fear that Sherlock may not make it through this. Sherlock survived jumping off a seven-storey building onto the pavement below. Now he’s just survived a serious drug overdose. There’s a part of John that genuinely believes Sherlock to be nigh indestructible. A very silly, childish part of him, perhaps, but it’s just about the only comfort he can think up at the moment. When Sherlock had returned after those two years… well, he could have said that he’d survived an avalanche, a volcano eruption and a meteor strike in his absence, that he’d walked through fire and water on his way back to London, and John would have believed it. That Sherlock has lived through all this… that’s as close as you can get to a proof of immortality. 

It doesn't help. Still John worries. Still his stomach tangles itself up in knots. Still his throat constricts until every breath is a challenge. Because it's just not true. Real people aren’t immortal. And as otherworldly as Sherlock may seem at times, as otherworldly as Sherlock may prefer to think of himself at times, John knows his humanity better than almost anyone else. And right now, he would to God he didn’t. With humanity comes mortality, and John isn’t a good enough liar to convince himself that his stomach doesn’t drop a further three storeys at that word appearing in connection with Sherlock Holmes.

Because Sherlock might be alive and that might be what matters… but he’s not awake, _damn it_! He’s not awake and John doesn’t have the words to describe how that feels. How it feels to sit here beside the unconscious body of his best friend, not knowing when he’ll wake up, not knowing _if_ he’ll wake up, not able to help him in any way.

The only word that John is able to think of to describe the situation is _no_. Just no. And yet in that simple, short word lies a world of meaning.

No, I have no words. No, don’t just lie there. No, don’t leave me here alone. No, don’t go where I can’t follow you.

Maybe John says it out loud. Maybe it’s just reflected back and forth in his brain like an ear-splitting echo, loud enough for him to imagine that he’s hearing it said out loud.

What John wouldn’t give to have Sherlock sit up right now. Sit up, smirk at him in that infuriating manner that is his custom whenever he’s done something terribly clever yet utterly scandalous and proclaim it all a big joke. John wouldn’t even get mad, not really. Whatever anger there’d be would drown in his relief.

_Please just bloody wake up. Wake up, you utter prick, you incorrigible bastard, you infuriating genius, you suicidal lunatic… Wake up, Sherlock._

-

_Wake up, Sherlock._

It’s so quiet. Months and months of constant noise, months of months of begging for silence and now… now he finally has it. Months and months of noise and voices and whispers, filling up his brain, driving him to distraction, driving him to self-destruction. All replaced with a ringing silence in the span of a second. And he wants rid of it.

Sherlock is on the couch, fingers steepled in front of his lips and eyes closed. He’s searching. Searching for the hatch, the backdoor, the shortcut into his mind palace. He’s never searched with a fervour such as this. He pictures himself upending one box of handy reminders after the other, pacing back and forth in his living room, one moment here, one moment there, up and down and round and round… but it’s just in his mind’s eye. It doesn’t feel as it usually does. He isn’t _there_ , he’s _here_ , right here on the couch, and he’s staying here no matter how fiercely he tries to tell his brain otherwise, tries to get it to disconnect him from his body and release his mind to roam around his mind palace. He can’t seem to find the hatch, the little twist in the fabric that he’s always been able to squeeze through before. He can picture himself moving around the room like a human hurricane as badly as he wants, removing his mind from his body is apparently not going to happen. If only he could return to the hallway and close the door then maybe… But he can’t find his way back. Can’t find the hallway, can’t find the door, can’t find anything. It feels quiet and empty and deserted inside his head.

Quiet and empty and deserted inside _him_.

-

Mycroft appears within the hour, characteristically uncalled for in every sense of the word. No one’s contacted him. He must have been keeping tabs on Sherlock in order to get here this quickly. John can’t be bothered to feel offended on Sherlock’s behalf, not even roll his eyes or make a sarcastic remark. He just feels a vague frustration that Mycroft has enough surveillance on his brother to track his movements and yet only shows up now, when it’s already far too late. Perhaps it’s even a slight sense of betrayal, John doesn’t bother to check. Having the power to stop disasters from happening in the first place yet preferring to let the events play out and then look into solving the problems after said disasters have already happened… that could almost be considered a Holmes family trait.

John leaves it to Mrs. Hudson and a nurse to explain the situation. He doesn’t have the energy for explanations requiring coherent speech, much less tact and diplomacy, and the last thing he needs is to see just a hint of a smirk or the slightest trace of a raised eyebrow on Mycroft’s face. British Government or not, that would be very unwise of him and John prefers not to test him. John can hear the nurse repeating her explanations and diagnoses in the hallway outside, but he doesn’t listen for Mycroft’s response. He feels a strange indifference to it all: to Mycroft, to the doctors, even to Mrs. Hudson. To everything around him apart from the man in the bed. As though everything not to do with Sherlock is happening so far away from John’s current focus of attention as to render him completely emotionally distant from it. The restless anger and frustration trapped inside of him half an hour ago has been replaced with a numbing lack of energy.

When Mycroft does eventually enter Sherlock’s hospital room, he surprises John by remaining completely silent. The man who, if possible, is more incensed than Sherlock that he be given the last word doesn’t make a sound. Perhaps it’s because he senses John’s emotional fragility. Perhaps he has nothing to say. He just places himself in the only available chair, which is on the opposite side of Sherlock’s sickbed from where John is sitting. He leans forward ever so slightly, resting against the handle of his umbrella and looking for all the world as though he’s sitting in his office on any Saturday afternoon, reading a paper and sipping a cup of tea. Not one emotion is evident on his face. It should infuriate John, but it doesn’t really. Just like everything else, it feels as though it’s happening somewhere far away.

And there they sit. Not a word passes between them, not a muscle is moved. One is leaned forward nonchalantly, not a flicker of emotion in sight, not a crack in his façade. The other is slumped back in his chair. If John had to guess, he’d wager he looks like a man whose whole world has come crashing down around him for the second time. He dislikes it, wearing his heart on his sleeve like this, but he doesn’t dislike it enough to conjure up the energy needed to put on a brave face. Mycroft would see through it anyway, wouldn’t he? No point in trying then.

Finally, after ten minutes of complete silence, there’s a stir from the other chair. A simple movement. No grand gesture, no declaration of love or care or concern. A simple movement, yet it seems all the more poignant for it.

Mycroft Holmes reaches forward and places his hand on top of his brother’s.

John is taken completely by surprise, so stunned that he momentarily forgets how he’s supposed to feel disconnected from everything and just stares instead. He almost feels bad for witnessing this. Feels as though he ought to look away. John may be Sherlock’s best friend, his flatmate of five years. A man who’s witnessed just about every major altercation between the Holmes boys during that time span and even participated in some of them. Yet somehow, this feels just a tad too close, too private, too intimate for John to be watching. As though he’s peeping in on a scene that he has no right to know about. A connection that runs so deep and is usually so well hidden that John feels like an intruder just for being here, getting a glimpse of an affection that was never his to glimpse.

Mycroft seems to be characteristically indifferent to John’s presence, which seems almost absurd in the face of such an uncharacteristic action. Perhaps he’s experiencing the same as John: focusing every inch of his attention on Sherlock to the point where everything else fades into insignificance. John wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He wants to offer some form of comfort as one normally would to a man holding the limp hand of his unconscious little brother, but John doesn’t do that either. There is no normal where the Holmes boys are unconcerned, this John knows, and Mycroft might not take too kindly to being called out on what is obviously a very rare moment of sentiment on his part.

So John does the only thing he can think of to convey his understanding. He takes Sherlock’s other hand.

Which turns out to be a big mistake. Sherlock’s hand feels cold in his, unnatural, the muscles loose without a hint of intention. It feels… it feels _dead_ , John realises, and he almost lets go of it in horror, a sick feeling settling heavily in his stomach and threatening to turn it inside out. John is reminded of a case he and Sherlock did together a long time ago, back before the Fall. One of the good ones, a poisoning, easily an eight on Sherlock’s scale. But it’s not the sensationally macabre details nor the glint of excitement in Sherlock’s eyes nor even Sherlock’s howl of satisfaction when he cracked it that John remembers. It’s the six-year-old daughter of the victim that comes to mind, sitting there as she had at the police station, chair way too big for her and a female officer close by for comfort as Sherlock had interrogated her. Sophie, her name was, if John remembers correctly. Sherlock had been reassuring, gentle even, as understanding as John can ever remember having seen him in front of a witness, Lestrade’s warning of “gently, please, Sherlock” for once not falling on deaf ears. Perhaps even Sherlock had felt sympathy for her, shaking like a leaf as she was. Perhaps he’d simply understood that being reassuring would be the fastest way to get the information he wanted out of her. Whatever the reason, John can’t help but recall her words now, shakily spoken and difficult to understand from the mouth of a first grader who’d seen more horror in the last twenty-four hours than many do in an entire lifetime.

_I didn’t like how daddy felt last night. I didn’t like it. He came to kiss me goodnight. He felt all clammy and wrong. He felt as though he was dead._

With a choked-out “I’m sorry” – the first words either of them has spoken to the other – John gets up from his chair, hand in front of his mouth, and runs to the guest toilet to empty his stomach.

-

Sherlock can’t remember the last time he felt this cold. Sherlock can’t remember _if_ he ever felt this cold before. Perhaps with the exception of that one time when he was six and he went through the ice and into a lake because he needed to know exactly how much weight the ice could carry, which turned out to be just short of the weight of a six year old jumping on it. He was soaked to the skin in an instant and caught a cold on the way home that lasted the better part of a month. Maybe that’s the last time Sherlock felt cold like this. Cold to the core of his bones. The lump of ice stuck in his chest isn’t all that different from a cold either with the way it seems to press against his lungs, turning his breaths short and rasping.

It’s the quiet. It gnaws away at him already. It has no right to be this quiet. He lives in the middle of London for Christ’s sake, it’s never this quiet. There’s still the traffic outside his window, but it’s distant and constant, like a recording playing in another room. There’s no vibrancy, no unpredictability. Even the occasional honking of a car horn feels devoid of all intention. Empty cars without people. Sherlock assumes there are still people walking by, but he hasn’t the heart to check. What if he’s wrong? Even if he’s not, they remain silent. No voices reach him from the street. The sounds of traffic refuse to intermingle with the typical sounds of London life.

Worst of all, though, is the silence within the flat itself. No matter how efficient Sherlock is at blocking out distracting noises, it’s never completely quiet in the flat. He can always hear Mrs. Hudson. Doing laundry. Vacuuming. Watching telly. He can even hear her cooking sometimes, especially when it’s not going according to plan and she’s complaining about it out loud. Even when she’s occasionally not making any noise, he can always feel her presence in the building. Now it’s gone. There are no noises. No footsteps, no voices, no tellies, no vacuum cleaners, no washing machines. It’s just… quiet. Sherlock knows that he would find empty room after empty room if he were to go downstairs. He can’t check. But he doesn’t need to check either. He can feel it.

And John. It’s been a long time since John’s presence was as constant as Mrs. Hudson’s. Sherlock used to take it for granted, used to barely notice when John came clambering up the stairs after a long day at the clinic, Tesco shopping bags in both hands and his keys between his teeth. He pays more attention now. Hears every creak of protest as John makes his way up the staircase and relishes the sound of the key in the door. John still keeps his key. They seem to have reached a mutual, silent agreement on the matter and it fits Sherlock just fine. The prospect of coming home to find John there has kept Sherlock afloat on multiple crime scenes during the last six months. That despite his best attempts at reining in his own anticipation. One should avoid too much disappointment, and John’s spontaneous visits have grown fewer and farther between. Sherlock aches for one of those spontaneous visits now, aches into the very centre of his being.

John is never silent either. Even when he isn’t speaking, he’s always making some form of noise. The steady huff when he breathes, the soft sounds his clothes make when he shifts or the various minor exhalations of air he uses to communicate all the things he doesn’t want to communicate, from annoyance to arousal. Sherlock knows all those sounds. He has them catalogued. Then there are all the sounds John creates around him. The regulated clicks of the keyboard when he’s typing, interspersed with moments of contemplation while he tries to formulate the next sentence. The sound of flowing water when he’s pouring tea, then a quick splash of milk and, occasionally, the rustle of sugar and the brief clang when he puts the lid back on the pot, quickly and conspiratorially, as though he’s done a bad thing and expects Sherlock to comment on it. John usually takes his tea black. Or with a little milk if he’s left the bag in too long, which isn’t unusual. Sugar is reserved for early evenings after long shifts, early mornings after all-night cases or middays when he’s particularly exasperated about something. Sherlock has noticed. He always does where John is concerned. Every little scrap of information, every deduction no matter how simple, meticulously stored away and catalogued together with everything else to do with John Watson.

And Christ if Sherlock isn’t fighting with all he has to find his way back to that room in his Mind Palace. His John Watson room. He needs it. Not since Serbia has he needed that room as badly as he does not. But it’s just like falling asleep. The more you think about it, the harder you try, the more impossible it becomes. Entering his mind palace has been second nature to Sherlock since before he entered primary school. Things that instinctive can’t be explained. Easy enough when you know how it’s done, yet completely impossible to explain to someone who doesn’t. Now that Sherlock doesn’t, it’s just not possible for his mind to consciously think his way through to it. He’s stuck here, locked up all alone and cut off from every source of distraction or comfort.

Solitary confinement is not an analogy. It’s a reality.

-

The hours pass or maybe they don’t. Sherlock can’t tell anymore, not when every minute seems to drag on for an eternity. He waits. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. No one is going to come for him, are they? No one is going to open the door and let him out. Things are never that easy. And yet still he waits. There’s precious little to do but that.

-

Then, suddenly, a sound. A slight creak. Unmistakably a floorboard. Right here, in his room, with him, right now. The relief seems to explode in Sherlock’s chest. If someone has come up here then the door isn’t locked and he isn’t up here all alone and the world hasn’t shut him out and he’s just been imagining things and _good God_ he needs to stop shooting because this is clearly way out of control!

A slight huff of air directly above him, an almost soundless chuckle.

“Missed me?”

Sherlock starts violently. His eyes fly open, looking straight into a pair of brown ones so close to his that the smirk spreading across his visitor’s face only shows itself in a slight crinkling around the eyes and a lifting of the cheeks. There’s a sudden drop in the oxygen levels of the immediate vicinity.

“Surprise.”

What raw delight in that sing-song voice.


	10. Limbic Regulation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marginally pleased with this chapter actually, and that despite the fact I had to struggle really hard with John's bits. I think I find John so difficult to do because there's such a big difference between what he thinks and what he does. When you go inside his head, it's easy to forget that, and I struggle with conveying it in a not-clumsy and understandable way.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, thank you to each and every one who leaves comments or kudos, and I really hope you enjoy chapter 10 of Icebergs!

Sherlock has no words. No words to say, no words to describe, no words to comprehend. But he needs to. He needs to say, to describe, to comprehend, badly, so he forces his tongue up against his teeth, forces the scant air remaining in his lungs to squeeze out of his too-narrow throat, forces his lips to form those words that he doesn’t have. The result is about as good as can be expected.

“How… how…”

“No, no, no, shh, not like that.”

A finger is placed over his lips (slightly shaking, damn them) and the sheer reality of that touch alone is enough to pin Sherlock to the spot, voice cords curling together uselessly. He is not asleep. He is not high. He is not seeing things. This is real.

Or as real as anything else, at least.

“Stammering really doesn’t become you, Sherlock. Take a moment to formulate your question and then put it to me. I might even answer if you do well.”

Jim Moriarty pulls back, removing his finger from Sherlock’s mouth and making himself comfortable in the chair that he has apparently dragged over.

John’s chair.

He looks just as Sherlock remembers him. Expensive suit. Slicked back hair. Eyes positively glittering with Sherlock knows not what. Mirth? Sarcasm? Insanity? Geniality? Sherlock’s brain is working on overdrive and the processing time is long. It takes him painful eight seconds to locate his voice again.

“How can you be alive…? I saw you die. How can you be here?”

He sounds like an idiot, dumb and confused and unintelligible. They can both hear it. An amused smirk appears on the face of his companion.

“Seems like suicides are going out of fashion. None out of two.”

“But you fired a gun into your own head. How could you possibly survive that…?” Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbow. His expression is probably comical, open-mouthed and disbelieving. There’s no space on his hard drive to take care of correcting it.

Moriarty chuckles softly, inspecting his cuffs with abandon as though he has all the time in the world. Perhaps he does.

“Well, Sherlock… you know my methods. I am known to be indestructible.”

There’s a peculiar undertone, Sherlock realises, to his voice and to his face. He looks more amused than anything, yes, but there’s something else there as well. Something barely concealed, hiding just beneath the surface. Moriarty has never been particularly efficient at hiding his emotions. But it’s different this time. The emotion barely hidden beneath the surface… that’s usually malice and Sherlock is used to that. Knows how to deal with it, at least to a certain extent.

It’s not malice now. There’s delight in Moriarty's face, but it’s not a cruel delight. There’s amusement, amusement at Sherlock’s expense, but it’s not the condescending amusement Sherlock remembers from the pool, from the courtroom, from the flat, from the rooftop, from nearly every encounter they’ve ever had face to face. It’s a relaxed amusement. An unproblematic amusement. If the person sitting across from him were anyone but Jim Moriarty, perhaps Sherlock would even have called it a normal amusement. The sort of amusement old friends get when they meet again several years down the road and discover that they haven’t changed at all and still know each other inside out. But it is Jim Moriarty sitting across from him, smiling like the cat who got its cream, and he’s supposed to be dead and none of this is normal and _why is he just sitting there as though it is?_

The exclamation is at the tip of his tongue, but it doesn't come. Instead, Sherlock just stares at him, and Moriarty returns his gaze. That amused smirk deepens.

“You look as though you doubt the evidence of your eyes.”

It’s the lack of malice that's throwing Sherlock off. There is none of that usual coldness to Moriarty now, not to his eyes, not to his smile, not to his voice. Maybe there’s even a hint of warmth. The sort of warmth that comes from the Sun on a cloudy day: it’s not there, but it’s not _not_ there either. And it’s strange and surreal and _wrong_ , but Sherlock is so damn cold to the core of his being and the warmth that may or may not be there in Moriarty’s eyes, smile, voice seems to be the only warmth left in the entire universe and he can’t help but want to hold on to that for just another second. He knows he shouldn’t. Sherlock would to God that Moriarty would just go away. And yet Sherlock also would to God that Moriarty would stay and never leave. That’s what it’s come to, is it?

And so he replies, if only to drag out a moment that he should be trying to put an end to. He doesn't even lie.

“I think I do.”

Maybe there’s a logical explanation. Maybe Sherlock is actually overdosing somewhere. Maybe he’s already dead. Maybe this is just the last few fumes that his drug addled brain manages to conjure up in the last tenth of a second before it shuts down once and for all. But then again, maybe it’s all real. Maybe Sherlock is actually trapped in here. Maybe the whole world has forgotten about him, shut him out, left him here to rot, locked him in. Has he deserved anything better? Maybe Moriarty really is here, really did survive. Does that seem so unlikely? Sherlock himself survived. Why shouldn’t Moriarty? _I am known to be indestructible_ , he’d said. That’s true, isn’t it?

In the end, Sherlock thinks, maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s real or not. Maybe what matters is that Sherlock feels cold to the bone and lonely as he never has before and if Moriarty is the only one offering even a hint of warmth and company then so be it.

The moment that thought crosses Sherlock's mind, Moriarty leans forward, hand stretched out in front of him. For a shocked moment, Sherlock is almost certain he’s about to place a hand on his cheek.

He doesn’t, of course.

The universe has not lost its mind completely just yet.

Moriarty takes hold of his chin and pushes his head up until their eyes meet. Meet and stay interlocked. It’s intimate, more intimate than any other moment shared between them before. Sherlock ought to pull away. _Do it_ , his brain seems to say. _Do it and reassert some kind of authority, some semblance of control. God knows you need it. Ask Moriarty to leave, use passive-aggressive language and a sarcastic tone of voice. Make it clever._ That’s what they’re used to. That’s what they do. That’s how the sometimes-balanced status quo between them is maintained. _Do it._

But Sherlock doesn’t do it. He just keeps looking, mile after mile after mile into those eyes, as always finding enigma upon enigma and yet not a single answer to any of them. It’s always filled him with a strange ambiguity, completely terrifying yet utterly attractive at the same time. Like a bomb seconds from exploding. He ought to run from it, but it draws him in instead, intriguing and fascinating and unknown and yet somehow, through it all, strangely familiar, familiar in a way that no other person has ever seemed to him. He knows nothing about this man, not really, and yet he knows him, knows the way he thinks and feels and acts in a way that he knows no one else on the planet. He looks in this man’s eyes and feels that intimacy and familiarity between them, and yet he also looks in those eyes and sees nothing but riddles. The most perilously stimulating case he’s ever worked on, the most dangerously desirable drug he’s ever tried. The deadly enigma that Sherlock just cannot leave be.

He speaks again, if only to break the spell, to divert the electrical current flowing between them.

“Why are you here?”

There’s a slight twist on one side of Moriarty’s mouth as it’s lifted into a mixture of a smirk and a smile. “I told you, Sherlock. I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The final problem.”

Sherlock hesitates at that, confusion and desire for information battling against pride for a moment. He’s exhibiting enough uncertainty as it is, lying here on the sofa in his dressing gown, dumb and scared and unable even to decide if he believes his own eyes. Letting Moriarty direct his gaze this way and that, foolishly tagging along three steps behind. Moriarty must be able to see that. Vulnerability upon vulnerability, one on top of another in an ever-increasing pile of insecurities and failures. That Moriarty of all people is the one witnessing him like this is an unbearable thought. Yet, in a sense, there’s something bizarrely fitting about it as well. Hasn’t it always been like this, Sherlock doing his utmost to stay remote and closed and Moriarty reading him like an open book nevertheless, seeing everything page for page?

Sherlock’s pride is the one to back down. How did he come to this? “I don’t understand.”

He expects a wide, triumphant grin. It doesn’t come. Instead, Moriarty is looking strangely... sad. Disappointed, but not in the arrogant manner that Sherlock remembers from their confrontation at the roof of Bart’s Hospital. It feels almost sympathetic.

“I know.”

No triumph. Merely bitterness.

“Poor thing. What happened to you, Sherlock?”

Moriarty lets go of his chin and leans back in John's chair.

-

Mary is all dignified concern and calm professionalism when she arrives in the early evening. John had phoned her while Mycroft had phoned his parents, after which they had lapsed back into that silence hanging between them, wobbling back and forth on the knife-edge between comfortable and decidedly not. It had been a relief to have someone interrupt, or so John had thought at first. Now he’s not so sure.

It’s not that Mary is doing anything wrong. Mary is nothing but sweet, quiet, calming, understanding… everything that John could possibly ask for. As always, Mary understands what he needs without having to ask. She takes care of all interactions with the staff and then simply sits beside him, hand is his reassuringly, without pressing for any form of response. Mary does nothing wrong.

It’s more the situation. It feels absurdly surreal, sitting here with her and Sherlock, knowing it’s his wife in the chair and his best friend on the bed. It to be the other way around. Then at least some of his feelings would make a little sense. He’s grieving. He’s grieved before. He’s even grieved for Sherlock before. Back then, it had felt _right_. The situation had felt wrong, more wrong than any other situation John has ever found himself in, but his emotional response to that situation had felt just right. However ashamed he had been to find himself leaning against perfect strangers, however much he’d hated himself for lying curled up in bed until three o’clock in the afternoon, however damaging it had been to his self-worth to wake up in the morning and realise that he’d actually gone to the shops the night before to buy yet more booze in his already heavily inebriated state and made a complete fool of himself in public, it had felt right to be grieving the way he did. He’d been virtually friendless apart from the friends he’d met through Sherlock. He’d been between girlfriends and neither of his previous encounters had left him feeling particularly emotionally attached. He’d had little immediate family, certainly not one he’d been close to. Grieving for Sherlock as the most important person in John’s life had been easy, natural and indeed inevitable. It had been unproblematic.

Now that Mary is sitting beside him, throwing the intensity of his grief over a friend into stark relief against the intensity of his feelings for his wife, it no longer feels just right. It’s as though the fiction they’ve all been struggling to maintain over the past months – the insistent narrative that “we’re a couple and he is our friend” – just does not hold up under the closer scrutiny it's now being placed under in the harsh light of recent events. Perhaps it’s the final straw in a revelation that’s been a long time coming. Perhaps it’s just that John is back, back on the pavement outside Bart’s, and now it’s the second time he’s said too little too late and allowed Sherlock to slip through his fingers. Who’s to say if he’ll be given a third chance?

Yes.

He loves Sherlock.

He always has.

But he loves Mary too, and she’s the one he’s committed himself to. She’s the choice he’s made. Not Sherlock.

Because Mary was the safe bet. There have been moments in which John has found himself suspecting that Sherlock might not be as entirely removed from emotional attachment as he always says. But there have also been moments, moments upon moments, in which John has found even some of his worst suspicions about Sherlock’s lack of human emotion confirmed with glaring clarity.

And Mary is not like that. Mary is here beside him, holding his hand, letting him sit in silence, understanding him with little fanfare and even less need for recognition.

That’s why John made the decision he made, and now he’ll have to live with that. You don’t reap what you sow. You reap what you care for as it grows. John has sown many seeds throughout the years, but he’s only truly taken care of two. And only one has come to fruition. What’s done is done. If he wanted it differently, he should have spoken a long time ago.

But he didn’t.

And there Sherlock lies.

And here John sits.

So yes. With the way things are between the three of them at the moment, prettily combined with the current situation and the uncertainty and guilt it brings… Mary’s welcome is wearing thin at about the same rate as John’s excuses. Which isn’t exactly helping to ease his guilty conscience either.

-

The hours pass. People come and go. Molly and Lestrade are the first. Sherlock’s parents arrive late in the evening. Mary offers her condolences. John hears himself think that he ought to do the same and then wilfully ignores it. Sherlock would say that there isn’t space on his hard drive for niceties.

John isn’t quite sure what he should say either.

Should he apologise? Should he tell them he knew it was a danger night, knew he shouldn’t leave Sherlock on his own when he clearly wasn’t in control of himself and yet did it anyway? Because that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? He bloody _knew_. And yet he still managed to convince himself that Sherlock was being genuine in his reassurances, that everything was going to be alright whether John was there or not.

And why? Because John wanted to get home to Mary rather than spend the night at Baker Street.

And why? Because John was feeling guilty about spending time with Sherlock rather than with Mary.

And _why?_ Because John had been lying in his bed next to his _wife_ only the night before and thought about his feelings and come to the conclusion that he’s in love with two people and one of them is a man even though John has never been like that and he’d had so many thoughts and feelings rummaging around his head that it had all seemed insurmountable and staying with Sherlock rather than going home to Mary had felt like a symbolic choice and a far too final decision for him to make then and there and so he’d left and now Sherlock is not awake, might not wake again, and it’s all such a huge fucking mess.

So John doesn’t say anything.

He just waits until they leave again and Mycroft leaves with them. Mrs. Hudson gathers her things as well when it begins to get late and says she’ll be back first thing in the morning, which makes John’s stomach drop a further fifteen stories as he ponders why that wording sounds awfully familiar.

Mary remains. She exchanges a few pleasantries and reassurances with Mrs. Hudson, but falls silent as John and her are left to watch over Sherlock on their own. Perhaps she’s waiting for John to speak up. Perhaps she’s imagining that he’s been holding back all day, waiting for this window of privacy.

In a way, it’s not too far off the mark. John _has_ been holding back. His head is filled with a thousand thoughts dying to be uttered. There’s plenty on his mind to fill out the silence. In fact there’s plenty to fill it out for what feels like the next three hundred years. The thing is, he can’t share any of it. Not with her. Here he is, sitting with his wife, his… his Mary. And yet he can say less to her than he could to a complete stranger.

He’s alone with this. Even if Mary doesn’t seem to have noticed.

She does speak eventually. When it’s nearing nine o’clock and John still hasn’t uttered a single sentence comprised of more than three words, Mary suggests that they go home. She does it gently, all softness and understanding. Mary as a nurse. Professional tone of voice that she’s been taught to use when addressing grieving relatives and friends judged to be less than fully functioning in the face of their dear ones’ injuries. John’s been through that course too, he knows the drill. Gentle pat on the shoulder, reassuring smile, calm voice, relaxed demeanour. He even knows how easy it is to fall back on your medical training when you don’t know how to handle a particular situation. Tailoring medical expertise to a personal experience is not the easiest thing to do. So he doesn’t mind Mary’s tone all that much. Her arguments are not devoid of logic either, not by a long shot, so John hears her out.

Maybe they should go home. It’s getting late and John hasn’t eaten all day. There seems to be no change in Sherlock’s condition and, even if there should be, they don’t have to stay and wait for it. The nurses will call them straight away if anything should happen. They’ll keep both their phones off mute all night and place them by the bedside, that’s a promise. They can’t sleep in these chairs, now can they?

All perfectly sound arguments, which John proceeds to ignore completely. He doesn’t interrupt or wave her off. He waits patiently for Mary to run out of arguments, then turns towards her and says what he knew would be his response before she had even opened her mouth: “You can go if you want to. I’m staying here tonight.” His tone tolerates no counterarguments. That’s all he has to say and that’s all he does say, even as Mary opens her mouth to protest. John simply returns his focus to Sherlock and, truth be told, ignores her.

It’s not the nicest way to turn her down. John feels bad about it even as he’s doing it. But it’s what he can manage at the moment. He’s in no mood for a lengthy discussion, and he won’t allow himself to be swayed. He had quite enough of that yesterday. Now, today, he needs to stand firm.

Mary sees it, thankfully. And she leaves, offering half-hearted reassurances that _it’s alright_ and _I understand_ and _I don’t mind_ that John does his very best to convince himself are genuine.

John is no longer as numb to input from the outside world as he was this morning just after Sherlock had been admitted when he sat with Mycroft and felt as though the world was happening on the other side of a window. The final proof is the wave of self-recrimination rising up and towering in front of him when Mary closes the door behind her. John feels bad about his behaviour, his thoughts, his confusion. He feels bad that he’s hurting everyone around him because he can’t seem to get his shit together for five minutes. And he feels relief that he’s alone with his thoughts. And he feels guilt about feeling relief.

But he stays.

This time, he stays.

As Mary leaves and John feels bad, he repeats that like a mantra – he stays. He may have fucked things up, deeply and irrevocably, may continuously fuck an increasing amount of things up, but at least he’s staying this time. He’s staying to see this through, staying right here either until Sherlock wakes up or until every hope of Sherlock ever waking up is abandoned. He left once. He’s not making the same mistake twice. That he swears to himself, silently but solemnly, as he shifts in a vain attempt to make himself more comfortable and prepares to spend the night where he belongs: huddled up in a hospital chair by Sherlock’s bedside.

-

Sherlock can’t decide if he’s worried or not. Maybe he’s too tired to be worried, which worries him, in which case he _can’t_ be too tired to be worried. It all just leaves him confused. Which should hardly come as a surprise by this point, but the shame of it still stings. He’s Sherlock Holmes. He’s never confused.

Except when he is.

Moriarty doesn’t leave. It should be a cause of concern, but Sherlock finds it to be a painfully sharp relief. Any form of company is preferable to being alone.

At least that’s what Sherlock tells himself at first. As the hours pass, he begins to realise that he actually doesn’t mind this particular company as much as he thought he would… or perhaps rather as much as he thought he _should_.

But Moriarty does nothing wrong. He isn’t bothering him, isn’t mocking him or belittling him. He doesn’t even appear to be condescending towards him. He just sits in John’s chair, easily reclined against the backrest, legs crossed casually in front of him and a small smile that might be a smirk seemingly permanently plastered on his face. Sherlock would describe it as _fond_ if it wasn’t so cheeky as to not look out of place on the face of the Cheshire Cat.

Sherlock tries not to speak. He’s out of his depth here, they both know it, and he would prefer not to humiliate himself more than necessary with his ignorance. So he turns over onto his side, back towards Moriarty, putting on a display of indifference that even Sherlock himself recognises as both petulant, pathetic and utterly transparent.

The thing is, though, that small acts of defiance, putting on a show of indifference, acting childishly and lashing out is all part of their dynamic. It’s part of what they’ve always done, partly to rile one another up and partly to amuse one another. It’s an aspect of their dynamic that has always been distinctly different from the one Sherlock shares with John.

When Sherlock acts this way with John, John sighs exasperatedly, runs a hand over his eyes and goes out in the kitchen to make some risotto or takes his laptop with him upstairs or, if he’s in a particularly bad mood, puts his coat on and heads out on the street, in short, excuses himself from Sherlock’s presence and leaves Sherlock to be petulant alone.

Moriarty, on the other hand, seems to revel in it. He enters into the game, smirk glued to his face and eyes glittering with amusement.

So of course, inevitably, Sherlock just can’t help himself. He has to see if their dynamic is intact and Moriarty’s expression is as he’s imagining it. He has to check. So he turns around after only a couple of minutes and just manages to catch that the familiar smirk widens impossibly further.

“Miss me?”

The air between them ignites once again, an electrical current passing from one to the other and back.

Sherlock should fear him. He really should. The list of valid reasons to do so is long and terrifying enough to put anyone off. He’s the most dangerous criminal alive right now. Directly or indirectly, he’s been the cause of numerous disappearances and deaths, going back to when he was just a kid himself. He’s put John in a vest full of semtex and aimed snipers at both him and Sherlock on multiple occasions. It’s his fault Sherlock had to spend two years away from London. It’s his fault Sherlock had to suffer torture at the hands of a terrorist cell in Serbia, leaving permanent scars that cover most of his back. It’s his fault Sherlock had to leave John to grieve for two long years before he found someone else, leaving permanent scars covering most of Sherlock’s psyche, or what’s left of it anyway. That last one is the one that really hurts.

Sherlock should fear him.

And Sherlock does.

But it’s always been a double-edged sword, a push-pull of alternating fear and attraction. Moriarty repels him and yet draws him in. Like a tide washing over him one moment and pulling him out on deep water the next.

Sherlock has never been strong enough to resist it. But John has always been there to resist it for him. John has always been strong on his behalf. John has always given him a reason to fight it, offered him an alternative target for his loneliness.

John isn’t here now.

And so Sherlock asks the question.

"What's the final problem?"


End file.
